FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  C.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Section         /V73^ 


r 


". i  Of  Pfi/% 


<* 


j      OCT  11  1333 

^^6/CSl  8E«5 

POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

BY 

v// 

WILLIAM    B.    TAPPAN. 

HARTFORD: 

S.    ANDRUS    &    SON. 

1850. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847, 

BY  WILLIAM  BINGHAM  TAPPAN, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Poetry  of  Life  is  the  third  volume  of  a 
series,  embracing  my  revised  Poems ;  of 
which,  Poetry  of  the  Heart,  and  Sacred  and 
Miscellaneous  Poems  are  the  first  and  second. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE 


MISSIONS. 

Delivered  before  the  Porter  Rhetorical  Society  of  Andover  Theological 
Seminary,  at  their  Anniversary,  September  4,  1838. 

Spirit  of  Missions  !   Spark  of  genuine  flame ! 
In  God  or  man  developed,  still  the  same. 
The  same,  where'er  Messiah's  followers  go,  — 
Lights  of  the  world,  —  to  scatter  light  below. 
The  same,  where  rise  the  solemn  temple's  walls, 
And  where  on  Heaven  the  forest  suppliant  calls. 
The  same  that  bids  the  herald  tempt  the  wave 
For  burning  India,  her  lost  sons  to  save ; 
Or  prompts  unfamed  Philanthropy  to  trace 
Through  lanes  and  alleys,  Misery's  dwelling  place. 
The  same,  where'er  Benevolence  is  known,  — 
Lingering  in  hovels,  seated  on  the  throne ; 
Thee,  Spirit !  I  discern,  and  hail  thee  now, 
Essence  divine,  —  Religion's  Daughter,  Thou ! 

Ere  in  the  void  the  firmament  was  hung, 
Creation's  birth  ere  stars  and  seraphs  sung, 


6  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Thou  hadst  thy  being.     Thousand,  thousand  times 
Ten  thousand  harps  had  woke  immortal  chimes 
To  thy  sweet  praises,  and  the  song  above 
To  thee  was  rendered,  known  in  heaven  as  Love. 

Say,  who  of  mortals  introduced  thee  here, 
And  brought  celestial  blessedness  so  near  ? 
Say,  who  of  man  the  sandal  girded  first, 
To  seek  a  welcome,  or  shake  off  its  dust  ? 
Peace  at  the  door  to  leave,  or  doom,  more  dread 
Than  that  which  fell  on  guilty  Sodom's  head  ? 
Nay,  no  mere  mortal  first  that  passage  trod : 
The  Prince  of  Missions  was  the  Son  of  God  ! 
Behold  him,  in  the  opening  blush  of  youth, 
In  his  own  temple !     See  the  Life,  the  Truth, 
Pointing  to  venerable  men  the  way 
That  scribes  may  miss,  —  from  which  the  sage  may 

stray. 
While  scanning  there  the  Missionary  Boy, 
The  skill  of  ancients  finds  perplexed  employ ; 
They  listen,  wondering,  —  and  subdued  is  pride, 
By  Wisdom,  Beauty,  Grace,  personified. 
Behold  him  in  his  Father's  work  engaged ! 
Work  to  be  done,  though  unchained  demons  raged. 
The  lame  he  heals,  the  blind  to  sight  restores, 
And  resurrection  on  Death's  chamber  pours ;  — 
Type  of  the  power  the  God  possessed  within, 
To  cure  the  soul,  and  raise  the  dead  in  sin. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


Last  words  are  precious.     He  that  bendeth  o'er 
The  form  so  loved,  so  soon  beheld  no  more,  — 
And  marks  the  eye,  which,  ere  the  spirit's  flight, 
Kindles  with  rays  of  an  unwonted  light,  — 
Watches  intently,  ere  't  is  hushed  in  death, 
The  lightest  whisper  of  the  parting  breath 
And  waits  and  listens  in  his  painful  fear 
Lest  but  one  word  —  the  last  —  may  fail  his  ear. 
The  last  fond  accents !  —  Memory  gathers  these  ! 
And,  when  the  struggling  soul  has  gained  release, 
No  miser  treasures  gold  as  Love  will  hoard, 
And  to  the  tittle,  will  fulfil  each  word. 
Man  is  to  man  most  faithful :  —  is  he  thus 
To  God  ?     Past  centuries !  ye  shall  answer  us. 

Twilight  was  gathering  o'er  the  Syrian  hills, 
And  day's  last  gleam  lay  on  Judea's  rills  ; 
The  soothing  silence  light's  departure  brings, 
Came,  gratefully,  on  sober  Evening's  wings  ; 
And  far  round  Bethany  the  influence  spread, 
That  o'er  Retirement's  hour  is  softly  shed ; 
When  Jesus,  with  his  faithful  followers,  came 
On  final  errand.     Him  they  knew,  the  same 
Late  lost  in  death,  but  now  in  triumph  found, 
Revisiting  the  loved,  familiar  ground,  — 
Martha  and  Mary's  town,  where  Lazarus  rose ;  — 
While  for  a  world  redeemed,  compassion  flows, 
He  gives  his  last  command,  —  fulfilled,  when  sea 


8  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

And  earth,  as  heaven,  to  Him  shall  subject  be  : 
"  Go,  ye,  and  teach  all  nations  ;  in  the  name 
Of  Love  Eternal,  saving  love  proclaim." 
Finished  his  work,  —  the  great  commission  given, 
A  cloud  his  car,  the  God  ascends  to  heaven. 
Thus  are  we  answered :  —  Eighteen  hundred  years 
Of  crime,  and  blood,  and  ignorance,  and  tears, 
On  hoary  Olivet  have  dial  kept, 
And  o'er  her  Lord's  last  words  the  Church  has  slept. 

Yet,  Saviour  !  fell  those  burning  words  on  hearts 
Slow  to  believe,  and  faint  to  act  their  parts  ? 
Deemed  the  apostles  that  Jerusalem, 
Their  field  appropriate,  would  suffice  for  them  ? 
And  feared  they  hardship,-  and  that  hands  which  slew 
The  Master,  would  destroy  the  servant  too  ? 
Or  passed  they  not  from  land  to  land,  in  turn, 
Like  flames  of  fire,  to  purify  and  burn  ! 
Thy  love  alone  constraining  them  to  spread 
The  Light  of  Life  through  regions  of  the  dead  ? 
They  did  !  —  and  Earth,  from  east  to  western  sea, 
From  north  to  south,  was  rendered  back  to  Thee. 
Where  slept  that  spirit,  —  mighty,  godlike,  then, 
In  following  ages  ?     Saviour  !  why  slept  men  ? 

The  night,  that  lowered  upon  the  nations,  broke ; 
The  slumbering  Church  to  duty  slowly  woke ; 
And  here  and  there,  some  stars  that  told  of  day 
Were  seen  to  tremble  out  in  gladdening  ray :  — 


POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


Xavier  and  Swartz  —  to  Europe  dimly  known  — 
With  glorious  lustre  on  the  Orient  shone. 
And  some  looked  out  along  this  "Western  sky,  — 
Lights  of  God's  kindling  that  mav  never  die. 

And  see  !  where  beauty  like  a  robe  is  flung1 
Round  David  Brainerd,  at  his  Crossweeksung. 
'T  is  his  the  Indian  proselytes  to  lave  — 
A  simple  rite  —  in  the  baptismal  wave  ; 
In  presence  of  the  sky,  and  their  wild  woods, 
With  solemn  music  of  their  native  floods. 
Himself,  a  young  disciple,  round  whom  stand  — 
Curious,  yet  grave  —  the  sovereigns  of  the  land; 
Bending  dark  brows  ;  —  'neath  which  gleam  awe  and 

love 
For  him  they  deem  a  prophet  from  above. 
Beautiful  picture  !  —  and  sublime,  as  fair ; 
WTiat  zeal,  and  hope,  and  self-denial  there  ! 

And  some  have  heard,  within  these  sacred  halls,2 
The  secret  voice  that  on  the  conscience  calls ; 
And  pondered  o'er  in  yonder  hallowed  grove,3 
The  lofty  plan  to  spread  Redeeming  Love. 
The  vows  assumed  beneath  that  conscious  shade, 
By  Heaven  were  witnessed ;  —  Heaven  has  seen  them 

paid. 
There  prayed  they,  humbly,  to  the  Source  Divine ; 
There  found  they  wisdom  on  their  path  to  shine. 


10  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Nor  faltered  they,  that  path  of  peril  known, 
Nor  thought  indulged  to  keep  from  God  his  own. 
Rejoiced  to  quell  ambition's  youthful  pride,  — 
Rejoiced  to  climb  the  noble  vessel's  side,  — 
A  highway  opened  for  them,  vast  and  wide, 
A  world  of  woe  before  them,  —  oh !  how  long 
By  us  neglected !  —  Heaven,  forgive  the  wrong ! 

Commerce  had  sent  her  barks  to  every  sea ; 
The  spangled  banner  of  the  daring  Free 
Had  tossed  its  haughty  folds  on  every  wind, 
Long,  long  before,  —  in  mercy  to  mankind,  — 
The  mission-keel  for  Jesus  ploughed  the  wave, 
With  register  of  things  that  reach  beyond  the  grave. 

'T  is  brave  to  see  a  gallant  ship," 

With  snowy  pinions,  fly 
Across  the  ocean,  like  a  bird, 

Beneath  a  pleasant  sky. 
'T  is  brave  to  think  what  precious  things 

Are  heaped  up  in  her  hold,  — 
What  goodly  merchandise  she  brings, 

And  jewelry  and  gold. 

How  lofty  is  her  carriage,  when 

She  sitteth  on  the  deep  ; 
Her  streamers  loose,  her  canvass  spread, 

The  rolling  seas  to  sweep  ! 


POETRY    OP    LIFE.  11 

The  loud  hurrah,  —  the  sailor's  cheer,  — 

The  tumult  and  the  strife,  — 
The  laugh,  the  farewell,  and  the  tear ; 

She  is  a  thing  of  life ! 

Yet  braver  sight  I  deem  it  is, 

And  goodlier,  when  a  ship, 
With  Mercy's  heralds,  doth  her  wings 

In  yonder  waters  dip ;  — 
A  burden  bearing,  richer  far 

Than  gold,  or  cunning  gem,  — 
The  treasures  of  the  holy  Star 

That  shines  from  Bethlehem  ! 

More  blessed  than  the  royal  ships 

Of  Solomon,  that  seas 
Once  traversed,  for  the  peacocks,  gums, 

And  spice  and  almug  trees. 
With  other  errand  than  the  bark 

That  hoists  the  slaver's  sail,  — 
On  whose  deck  rains  the  curse  of  One 

Who  hears  the  Negro's  wail. 

Thrice  blessed  !  for  she  answers  well 

His  high  intent,  who  gave 
A  passage  through  all  latitudes, 

A  path  on  every  wave,  — 


12  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

And  to  the  needle  law  to  turn 

Obedient,  to  the  pole, 
That  His  own  word  may  journey  on, 

And  visit  every  soul. 

It  is  a  holy  thought,  that  men 

May  watch,  and  toil,  and  strive, 
And  stir  with  enterprise  the  land, 

And  make  the  seas  alive  ; 
And  open  up  new  avenues 

Which  Traffic  never  trod, 
Only  that  Earth  by  these  may  be 

A  highway  for  our  God. 

On  !  on  !  —  degraded  Africa 

In  this  good  ship  has  part ; 
A  pulse  of  joy  shall  quickly  beat 

Throughout  her  mighty  heart ;  — 
And,  from  her  farthest  pyramid, 

Down  to  her  southern  line, 
When  Freedom  reigns,  what  exile  will 

Look  homeward,  to  repine  ? 

On  !  on  !  —  the  iEgean  —  glorious  sea  !  — 

Before  us  gaily  smiles ; 
And  those  rich  emeralds  on  its  breast, 

The  lovely  Grecian  Isles. 


POETEY   OF   LIFE.  13 

On  every  island  shall  the  Cross 

Confirm  the  faith  of  men  ; 
And  we  '11  not  dwell  on  farewell  tears, 

In  memory's  sadness  then  ! 

Where  Housatonic  quietly  is  seen 
Winding  its  silver  path  through  vales  of  green,  — 
Such  as  New  England  only  boasts,  —  one  dwelt, 
Who  followed  busily  the  world,  yet  knelt 
Daily  and  truly  at  a  better  shrine,  — 
For  this  life  wise,  and  wise  for  Life  divine. 
One  hapless  morn,  his  duties  seemed  to  ask 
That  on  the  river  he  should  ply  his  task. 
A  storm  had  swept  the  waters.     Chafing  still, 
The  billows  vexed  the  shore,  and  he  from  ill 
Must  save  his  craft,  which  at  their  mercy  lay ; 
So  cheerfully  to  labor  went  his  way. 

He  sought  the  angry  stream,  and  from  its  bed 
That  evening's  shadows  saw  him  taken,  dead. 
The  widow  —  name  of  anguish!  silence  best 
May  tell  her  sorrows  —  sunk  at  first,  oppressed. 
A  Christian  widow,  she,  whose  humble  trust 
Was  firm  in  God,  who  laid  her  hopes  in  dust. 
Kites  all  performed  to  the  departed  due, 
She  to  her  chamber  with  her  babes  withdrew, 
And  kneeling  by  them,  in  prevailing  prayer 
Poured  out  a  mother's  ardent  wishes  there. 


14  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

To  Him  who  makes  the  fatherless  His  care, 

She  gave  them  up ;  —  then,  on  the  curly  head 

Of  her  first-born,  she  laid  her  hand,  and  said  : 

"  Samuel !  —  my  son  !  —  my  eldest !  —  you  have  now 

No  father  here  to  love  you ;  —  if  you  bow 

To  Christ,  your  Saviour,  though  severe  this  rod, 

He  '11  be  your  Father,  and  your  gracious  God." 

Smiling  in  tears,  she  rose,  and  found  relief, 

Thenceforth  in  faith,  for  this  her  bitter  grief. 

That  eager  boy,  led  by  maternal  love, 

Trod  the  safe  ways  that  surely  lead  above. 

And  now,  though  dead,  Heaven  all  the  faith  fulfils 

Of  her,  the  ancestor  of  sainted  Mills  ! 

O  mother !  take  thy  little  son,  — 

A  path  to  him  unknown,  — 
And  lead  him  to  the  holy  Cross  ; 

He  cannot  go  alone  ;  — 
And  teach,  betimes,  those  rosy  lips, 

Ere  stain  may  gather  there, 
To  lisp  of  God ;  those  infant  knees 

To  bow  in  earnest  prayer. 

He  looks  to  thee  in  confidence,  — 

He  knows  no  other  love ; 
Wilt  thou  not  guide  that  trusting  one 

To  better  hope  above  ? 


POETRY    OF    LITE.  15 


He  asks  in  sweet  simplicity 
To  have  his  wants  supplied,  — 

Wilt  thou  not  teach  him  how  to  crave 
Of  One  who  will  not  chide  ? 

Thy  heart  is  all  alarm  when  pain 

Afflicts  his  languid  limb,  — 
It  soothes  thee,  if  thou  mayst  but  ease 

One  pang  that  troubles  him ; 
And  wilt  thou,  then,  unmindful  be, 

Lest  pains  without  control 
Should  end  in  death,  —  the  second  death 

Of  that  undying  soul  ? 

Oh  !  look  on  his  uncertain  step 

Along  the  nursery  floor,  — 
And  think  how  swift  those  feet  may  be 

To  seek  Destruction's  door  ! 
Ay,  mother !  others,  at  their  birth, 

Like  morning  suns  have  shone  ; 
'Yet  in  their  sins  they  sunk  away, 

And  set  in  shame  alone. 

Oh,  think  !  thy  speech,  thy  action,  look, 

Have  influence  to-day,  — 
And  still  shall  wield  their  influence 

When  worlds  have  past  away. 


16  PCETItY   OF   LIFE. 

Ob,  think  !  that  an  unbidden  glance 

Has  power  on  such  a  one, 
To  shape  a  fiend's  or  seraph's  path, 

When  myriad  years  have  run ; 

That  this  dear  prattler  on  thy  knee, 

Whose  face  is  sunshine  now, 
May  swell  the  ranks  who  wear  the  curse 

Of  hell  upon  their  brow ; 
Or,  with  a  harp,  like  that  on  which 

A  Paul  and  Payson  play, 
May  soar  and  sing,  where  Perfect  Love 

Makes  one  unclouded  day.4 

There  is  a  power  at  the  secluded  hearth 

Of  yon  New  England  household,  that  may  be 
Felt  by  the  dwellers  at  the  ends  of  earth,  — 

Known  to  the  islands  of  the  distant  sea. 
Come !  let  us  woo  the  waters,  and  repair 

To  Asia's  pleasant  gardens,  where  the  palm   , 
And  fig-tree  flourish ;  and  the  gentle  air, 

Laden  with  citron,  yields  perpetual  balm. 
In  this  sweet  Isle-of-France  is  seen  the  grave,  — 

Crowned  with  the  evergreen,  —  where  Harriet  5 
sleeps. 
What  tender  thoughts  speed  o'er  the  Indian  wave, 

Where  pilgrim  Love  for  her  fond  vigil  keeps ! 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  17    I 

What  thousands,   roused    from    sleep,   have   caught 
Love's  flame ! 

What  thousands  more  its  influence  shall  confess, 
Woke  by  the  thrilling  music  of  her  name,  — 

And  venture  all  —  the  heathen  world  to  bless ! 

Unhappy  India !  —  empire  of  the  sun  !  — 
Rich  in  the  gifts  of  nature,  yet  undone. 
Toil  has  been  given,  with  many  prayers  for  thee, 
That  thou  from  Error's  bondage  mayst  be  free. 
Yet  Time  rolls  on  ;  —  in  billows  deep  and  long, 
The  tide  rolls  on,  —  two  hundred  millions  strong,  — 
Emptying  those  waves  of  life  into  the  sea 
Of  shoreless,  fathomless  Eternity. 

To  urge  thee  downward  in  thy  course  of  woe, 
Hear  it,  high  Heaven  !  and  wonder,  Earth  below ! 
The  Christian  lends  his  influence,  and  for  gain 
Adds  one  more  link  —  the  strongest  —  to  thy  chain. 
Thy  youth,  in  European  science  taught, 
Obtain,  blest  boon  !  the  privilege  of  thought; 
And  seeking  Truth  —  which  only  maketh  wise  — 
Detect  old  frauds  and  superstitious  lies  ; 
And  caste,  and  priest,  and  rite,  at  once  despise. 
Yet  led  not  by  Philosophy  to  drink 
At  higher  streams,  they  loiter  on  the  brink 
Of  these  low  waters,  thirsty.     Who  will  show 
The  young  inquirers  where  those  fountains  flow, 
2 


18  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Of  which,  who  drink,  the  pearl  of  price  obtain  ? 
And  henceforth  live,  and  never  thirst  again  ? 
Yonder  it  comes  !  —  instruction  from  the  West ! 
Gleaned  from  the  dregs  of  poison  that  infest 
Decaying  France  ;  the  precepts  of  Voltaire, 
And  Paine's  vile  gatherings  of  the  pit  are  there ; 
Sent  from  the  soil  of  Freedom's  boasting  band, 
By  men  who  tread,  they  say,  a  Christian  land,  — 
Who,  rather  than  their  dreadful  gains  forego, 
Would  doom  their  race  to  everlasting  woe. 
Better,  far  better,  that  the  Hindu  lay, 
A  blinded  votary,  still  to  senseless  clay, 
Or  sculptured  stone :  —  for  him  it  had  been  well ; 
He  had  not  found,  at  last,  so  deep  a  hell. 

So  have  I  heard,  on  some  rude  barbarous  coast, 
Where  ships  are  wrecked  and  mariners  are  lost, 
If  one,  perchance,  is  rescued  from  the  wave, 
'T  is  but  to  find  on  land  a  surer  grave  ;  — 
The  robber  meets  him,  nor  regards  his  prayer, 
But  murders  whom  the  seas  and  tempests  spare. 

Joy  to  the  world  !  —  the  Isles  that  ages  saw 
Vassals  of  sin,  now  wait  Messiah's  law. 
Forth  to  their  toil  the  Missionaries  go, 
Gladly  to  lessen  human  guilt  and  woe. 
God  goes  before  them,  freely  to  prepare 
The  way  in  pagan  lands,  Salvation's  highway  there. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  19 

And  while  breaks  on  them,  cloudlike,  Oahu, 
They  hear  the  far-off  cry,  —  "  The  tabu's  o'er ! 

The  altar  and  the  God  demolished  too, 

What  Deity  shall  come  to  Obookiah's  shore  ?" 

He  comes !  He  comes !  whose  mission  't  is  to  save, 

And  raise  the  vilest  from  pollution's  grave. 

And  at  the  music  of  His  voice,  the  brand 

Of  death  drops  powerless  from  the  assassin's  hand. 

She  that,  inhuman,  would  to  burial  give 

Her  living  babe,  consents  the  babe  shall  live. 

The  feeble  parent,  sick,  or  worn  with  age, 

Is  left  no  more  to  glut  some  monster's  rage. 

The  tear  is  shed,  and  heaves  the  contrite's  sigh, 

Instead  of  strife,  and  Pe-le's  frantic  cry. 

And  stealing  o'er  the  plain  and  lovely  dell, 

How  strangely  sweet !  —  is  heard  the  Sabbath  bell. 

The  word  proclaimed,  the  Spirit  comes  in  power ;  — 

'T  is  Love's  reward,  —  't  is  Heaven's  rejoicing  hour. 

And  what  shall  mar  this  picture  ?  —  Blasts  from  hell 
May  not  destroy  what  God  secures  so  well. 
And  who  of  men,  if  devils  fail,  can  dim 
These  ocean-jewels,  fashioned  thus,  for  Him  ? 
What  savage  lands  ?  —  nay,  savage  they  were  not 
That  furnished  cargoes  of  the  bane,  to  blot 
These  pleasant  gardens  from  the  southern  deep, 
And  leave  the  Christian,  patriot,  man,  to  weep 


20  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

For  desolation,  wrought  along  this  shore, 

Known  to  the  elder  sister  group  before. 

From  polished  climes  the  dreadful  besom  came 

To  sweep  these  islands ;  and  the  guilt  and  shame 

Lie  at  the  doors  of  holy  men,  whose  sum 

Of  cash  and  sin  is  swelled  by  cursed  New-England  rum. 

Cross  the  Pacific  to  our  western  coast, 
And  vice  of  darker  hue  shall  meet  thee.     Boast 
No  more  of  Christian  courtesy  ;  —  behold  ! 
How  fiendlike,  man,  —  in  villany,  how  bold  ! 
The  poor  Nez  Perces,  from  their  Oregon 
Yearly  allured  to  guilty  towns,  are  won 
To  foul  Intemperance  and  Lust ;  —  then,  fraught 
With  seeds  of  sin,  are  to  their  kindred  brought ; 
Returned,  to  poison  with  pestiferous  breath 
The  simple  hordes,  and  scatter  moral  death.7 

"  Give  us  the  holy  Book,"  said  they, 

"  Whose  writing  tells  of  hope  and  heaven  : 
Our  lot  is  sad,  and  dark  our  way ; 
May  not  the  blessed  Star  of  Day, 

To  cheer  the  Indian's  path,  be  given  ? 

"  Ye  've  urged  us  to  the  farthest  West, 

From  hunting-ground  and  teeming  river  : 
Your  corn  grows  on  our  mother's  breast,  — 
We  're  trodden  down,  abused,  oppressed, 
And  Manitoo  will  not  deliver. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  21 

"  We  '11  look  to  lands  that  may  be  ours, 

Of  running  streams,  and  forests  vernal ; 
Where  brave  men,  in  those  happy  bowers, 
Pass  joyfully  the  white-winged  hours 
That  brightly  link  the  years  eternal. 

"  We  want  the'  Book  that  shows  the  way,  — 
The  guide  to  poor  lost  wanderers  given ;  — 
'T  will  make  us  glad,  while  here  we  stay ; 
The  white  man's  blessed  Star  of  Day 
Shall  lead  the  Indian  to  his  heaven." 

The  white  man,  with  beguiling  talk, 

Allured  the  Indian  to  his  city, 
Where  Crime  is  seen  in  shameless  walk, 
And  mad  Intemperance  loves  to  stalk, 

And  glares  the  eye  that  knows  not  pity ; 


An  outcast,  loathsome,  and  heart-broken ; 
He  begs  once  more  —  the  wretch  undone  — 
The  holy  Book  that  warns  to  shun 

Such  woe  —  of  heavenly  love  the  token ; 

His  cards  the  white  man  proffered  then,  — 

Hell's  printed  leaves ;  at  such  endeavor 
Of  wickedness,  beyond  his  ken, 
The  Devil  blushed,  yet  triumphed,  when 
He  saw  the  victim  lost  for  ever. 


22  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

Spirit  of  Missions,  wake  !  —  thou  art  awake 
If  we  may  Popery  trust.     See,  where  they  break 
Away,  in  locust  swarms,  from  fruitful  Rome, 
To  rear  the  papal  throne  in  Freedom's  home ; 
And  teach  our  sons  to  own  a  foreign  power  ; 
Our  daughters  take,  with  modesty's  rich  dower, 
And  wed  them  to  the  Lord.     Yes,  bind  the  free 
With  magic  influence  of  Saint  Peter's  key  ! 
Yet,  would  you  learn  their  fitness,  and  how  wise 
Are  such  to  win  the  young,  a  sketch  may  well  suffice. 
If  e'er  to  classic  Italy  you  go, 
Look  at  the  schools  that  good  Borromeo, 
Milan's  archbishop,  founded.     Popery  keeps 
Its  vigils  there,  while  better  precept  sleeps. 
Sunday  is  chosen ;  yet  not  Sunday  Schools 
Deem  these,  though  subject  to  Religion's  rules. 
Behold  them  in  the  vast  cathedral,  where, 
Sexes  apart,  they  sit  with  solemn  air, 
And  listen,  as  the  skilful  priest  explains 
The  sinner's  loss,  —  the  devotee's  sure  gains ! 
No  Bible  in  the  pupil's  hand  is  seen, — 
No  library  book  adorns  his  desk  of  green. 
And  yet  a  bribe  rewards  the  heavy  task 
Of  due  attendance.     From  kind  Heaven  ask 
These  priests  indulgences  for  sin,  to  pay 
The  hireling  scholars  on  each  Sabbath-day. 
And,  without  sigh  or  penitential  grief, 
Scores  are  wiped  out  by  the  old  pontiff's  brief; 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  23 

Then  troop   they  homeward,  —  mingling  smiles  and 

tears,  — 
Absolved,  some  five,  and  some  five  hundred  years.8 

Dear  native  land !  't  is  said,  in  Heaven's  decree, 
That  glorious  things  are  spoken  yet  of  thee  ; 
That,  to  fulfil  some  high  intent,  God  gave 
Our  pious  fathers  passage  o'er  the  wave, 
And  led  those  pilgrims  on  their  stormy  way, 
His  ark  to  shelter  in  yon  wintry  Bay ; 
Where  they,  obscure,  despised,  in  very  need, 
Planted  in  these  rude  hills  most  precious  seed, 
And  watched  its  growth,  and  watered  well  its  root, 
And  saw  it  redolent  of  leaves  and  fruit,  — 
Till,  their  faith  realized,  the  giant  tree 
Has  stretched  its  hundred  arms  from  sea  to  sea. 

Has  Heaven  done  this,  —  and  shouldst  not  thou 
engage 
In  strife  for  Heaven,  and  its  last  battle  wage  ? 
Shouldst  thou  not  speed  Salvation's  message,  thus, 
As  widely,  freely,  as  the  common  curse  ? 
In  every  spot  where  wasting  sin  has  rule, 
Plant  God's  own  nursery,  the  Sunday  School  ? 
Give  to  his  Bible  wings,  and  bid  it  go 
Where  guilt  is  found,  and  guilt's  companion,  woe  ? 
Nor  stay  thy  labor  till  the  Eternal  Son 
Smiles  on  a  world  to  his  dominion  won  ? 


24  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Is  Wealth  required  ?     Of  Earth's  superfluous  gold, 
A  mite  would  win  her  back  to  Jesus'  fold. 
Its  fountains  are  not  sealed  ;  —  yon  playhouse  shows 
When  folly  calls  for  wealth,  it  freely  flows. 
Is  talent,  time,  or  zeal  required  ?  —  all  these 
That  playhouse  has,  at  full  command,  to  please. 
See  there,  for  sin,  how  willingly  engage, 
With  all  the  heart,  the  votaries  of  the  stage  ! 
Who  strut  and  trifle,  mock  and  laugh  away, 
In  mimic  joy  and  sorrow,  life's  poor  day. 
Thousands  they  've  lulled  with  pleasure's  syren  song, 
Ten  thousand  witched  to  death  by  sorcery  strong. 
What  bitter  tears  have  wretched  fathers  shed 
O'er  manly  sons,  —  of  promise,  early  fled !  — 
What  stricken  mothers,  silently,  have  laid 
A  broken  heart  to  rest,  where  tomb-flowers  fade, 
For  lovely  daughters,  sunk  away  in  shame, 
Allured,  betrayed ;  for  ever  lost  their  name, 
Amid  enticements  of  the  playhouse,  where 
The  soil  is  sin,  —  pollution's  breath  the  air  ! 
What  hopes,  what  bliss,  what  prospects  of  earth's 

good, 
What  gold,  what  pearls,  what  bodies,  souls,  this  flood 
Of  vast  iniquity  has  gorged,  none  may 
Or  count  or  guess :  the  last  revealing  day 
Will  to  the  world,  in  the  world's  pyre-light,  show 
What  wealth  was  whelmed  in  this  abyss  of  woe.9 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  25    1 


Is  Chivalry  required,  that  youth  inspires  ? 
'T  is  here,  indeed,  though  lawless  are  its  fires. 
In  honor,  nice,  it  calls  aloud  for  blood, 
And  will  obtain  it,  —  spite  of  man  or  God. 
From  yonder  capital  ye  heard  its  cry, 
When,  for  their  idol,  fools  agreed  to  die ; 
When  was  forgotten  each  appealing  claim 
Of  right  or  country,  —  wife  and  child,  —  a  name 
Was  periled,  and  in  contest  for  a  shade, 
Forth  went  the  Duellist  on  high  crusade.10 

Yes,  ye  are  honorable,  all, 

In  Congress,  there  's  no  doubt ; 
Your  chivalry  we  may  not  call 

In  question,  who  are  out. 
Oh,  no  !  and  yet  there 's  fresh  warm  blood 

Upon  your  hands  to-day ; 
And  earth  has  drunk  the  purple  flood 

Its  streams  can't  wash  away. 
Blood,  too,  that  in  their  coward  haste, 

Men,  who  from  conscience  shrink, 
Have  dared,  like  Druids  damned,  to  taste, 

And  given  their  god  to  drink. 
Shame  !  where 's  thy  blush  ?  we  saw  it,  when 

We  searched  some  felon's  cell; 
But  with  such  honorable  men, 

Shame  may  not,  cannot  dwell ! 


26  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

I  saw  the  deck  of  the  tall  vessel,  when 
'T  was  place  of  interest  to  God  and  men. 
Her  sails,  all  loosened  to  the7  ready  breeze, 
Her  pennons,  pointing  to  the  distant  seas, 
Told  us,  the  graceful  traveller,  under  weigh 
For  foreign  climes,  must  shortly  cleave  the  Bay. 
And  who  are  these  that  gather  round  her  ?  Some. 
Are  whispering  solace  —  others,  grief  makes  dumb. 
That  old  man,  on  the  verge  of  heaven,  takes 
Farewell  of  him  who  sire  and  home  forsakes. 
The  bride  is  there  —  a  tender,  gentle  girl, 
Lost  for  the  moment  in  the  varying  whirl 
Of  sorrow,  joy,  and  blessed  hope,  as  sever 
Those  who  on  earth  again  shall  mingle  never. 
She  hangs  upon  her  mother ;  —  who  may  tell, 
O  holy  Nature  !  what  strong  feelings  swell 
Within  that  mother's  bosom  !     And  they  go, 
Where  Mercy  guides,  to  nations  sunk  in  woe. 
Yet  think  not  't  is  in  sorrow,  —  that  hour's  bliss 
Comes  from  another  world ;  't  was  never  known  to 
this. 

That  youth  will  labor,  suffer  there,  in  strife 
With  idol  powers.     That  female  will  her  life 
Yield  up  —  if  need  be  —  where  the  banyans  bloom, 
"Where  no  kind  kindred  hand  may  deck  her  tomb, 
Where  savage  beasts,  or  men  more  savage,  roam,  — 
Far  from  her  much-loved  Massachusetts  home ; 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  27 

And  the  sweet  sympathies  that  bless  her  lot, 
Who  languishes  and  dies  in  the  dear  spot 
That  saw  her  birth.     The  cloud  of  canvass  spread, 
The  ship  departs  ;  the  mission-path  they  tread. 
Yet  one  last  word,  last  wish  expressed,  —  it  swells 
Along  the  whisper  of  their  sad  farewells,  — 
Asks,  when  of  prayer  we  taste  the  soothing  power, 
We  '11  ne'er  forget  them,  —  never,  in  that  hour. 

Welcome  the  hour  of  interceding  prayer  ! 
Welcome  the  place  of  precious  concert !  where, 
With  one  accord,  the  Christian  suppliants  meet, 
And  lay  the  heathen  world  at  Jesus'  feet. 
The  flame,  lit  up  on  the  far  Sandwich  shore, 
Catches  from  land  to  land,  and  passes  o'er 
Ocean  and  continent,  till,  like  a  robe 
Of  glory,  prayer  encompasses  the  globe. 

Yet  deem  not  prayer  or  gold  will  ever  win 
Earth  from  the  grasp  of  unrelenting  Sin. 
Not  these  alone ;  —  there  must  be  quenchless  zeal, 
And  love  untiring,  —  that  like  love  can  feel, 
And  toil,  as  Love  did ;  gladly,  wholly,  so 
That  heaven,  all  love,  may  dwell  with  men  below. 

Think  not  the  work  is  done,  or  well  nigh  done 
To  "  pray  and  pay  "  some  few  days,  and  the  Son 
Will  surely  enter  on  his  kingdom  —  No  ! 


28  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

The  mighty  toil  is  but  commenced ;  and  think, 
How  little  is  accomplished  !  —  On  the  brink 
Of  ruin,  yet  how  many  millions  stand  ! 
How  few,  alas  !  of  that  immortal  band 
Will  reach  immortal  life  !  —  who  of  us,  then, 
Delays  exertion  for  these  fellow-men  ? 
Oh  !  while  we  linger,  lingers  not  Death's  power ; 
And  Hell  has  won  its  thousands  in  this  hour ! 

Thou  precious  Gospel !  power  is  seen  in  thee, 
From  every  yoke,  to  set  all  captives  free. 
Where  thy  pure  influence  is  truly  felt, 
Spurned  are  the  gods  to  which  man  blindly  knelt. 
Hark  !  to  a  voice  o'er  glad  Caribbean  waves,11 
Telling  that  men  walk  forth,  no  longer  slaves. 
The  fetters  broke,  —  for  ever  unconfined, 
Henceforth  expatiates  the  immortal  Mind, — 
Doing,  what  Mind,  free  as  its  Giver,  can, 
To  prove  the  affinity  of  God  to  Man. 
'T  is  much  that  now  the  tiller  of  the  soil 
Shall  henceforth  reap  the  harvest  of  his  toil ; 
'T  is  much  —  no  longer  in  the  world  alone, 
He  feels  home's  treasures  are  indeed  his  own. 
No  tyrant's  hand  shall  on  his  wife  be  laid, 
No  ruffian  dealer  in  his  children  trade ;  — 
Nor  to  the  cord  and  whip  shall  subject  be 
The  body,  —  yes,  't  is  more,  —  the  soul  is  free  ! 
The  soul,  once  bought  with  Priceless  Blood,  and  sold 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  29 

By  man,  unblushingly,  for  sordid  gold. 
What  earthquake  cry  has  on  that  prison  broke, 
And  from  the  guiltless  captive  loosed  the  yoke  ? 
The  same  strong  Voice  that  rocked  Philippi's  cell, 
Has  wrought  Emancipation's  work  so  well ! 
The  Gospel  melted  Slavery's  dreadful  chain, 
And  brought  up  Man  to  sit  with  Men  again. 
Oh,  speed  it  then !  till  on  our  millions  fall 
Its  warmth  and  light,  that  play  upon  the  wall 
Of  their  sad  dungeon,  and,  barred  out  by  sin, 
As  yet,  with  blest  deliverance,  shine  not  in. 

Spirit  of  Missions !  art  thou  not  still  found 
Within  this  presence,  awfully  around  ? 
Spirit  of  Missions  !  hast  thou  not  a  throne 
In  some  hearts  here,  accepted  as  thine  own, 
That  burn  to  herald  the  Redeemer's  Name 
In  far-off  lands  ;  content  with  pain  and  shame, 
Sickness  and  sorrow — death  itself — if  they 
Might  win   some   souls   where   wretched   millions 

stray ; 
And  lay  their  bones  in  some  unnoticed  grave, 
Where  Burmah's  gardens  bloom,  or  Jordan's  palm- 
trees  wave  ? 

What  recollections  crowd  upon  you  still,  — 
Ye  who  inquire,  and  learn  your  Master's  will,12 
As,  often  gathering  in  these  sacred  halls, 


30 


POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


Ye  counsel,  pray,  and  ponder  o'er  the  calls 
From  the  far  Heathen !     Oh  !  how  kindly,  then 
Comes  on  the  heart  remembrance  of  the  men 
Who  sat  where  thus  ye  sit,  in  like  employ,  — 
Redemption  their  high  theme  —  its  work  their  joy 
Where  are  they  ?     Memory  repeats  it,  "  where  ! " 
The  sea  has  some,  and  some  sepulture  share 
With  the  poor  Pagan :  —  will  ye  follow,  too  ? 
The  foe  is  strong  —  our  warriors  are  but  few. 

Jericho,  when  the  trump  of  jubilee 
Rang  round  her  walls  the  anthem  of  the  free, 
Shook  at  the  glorious  music.     Reeling,  fell 
Rampart  and  tower,  as  by  some  mighty  spell. 
God  did  it !     Vain  that  Levite  trumpeter, 
With  holy  ark,  should  seven  days  compass  her. 
Not  these  !  not  these  !  His  own  Almighty  blast 
Her  pomp  and  glory  down  to  ruin  cast ; 
Yes,  swept  from  earth  her  very  name,  that  none 
Of  her  rebellious  seed  might  glean  a  stone. 

Thus  will  it  ever  be  !     The  only  song 

Bewildering  devils  with  its  heavenly  call 

At  whose  high  summons  gates  shall  open  wide, 
Walls  crumble,  and  from  Satan's  captive  throng 
The  dreadful  fetters  shall  for  ever  fall, 
Is  that  of  Freedom  :  —  Go,  ye  heralds,  go ! 
And  strong  in  Israel's  God,  —  in  God,  who  died 
To  free  a  world,  —  Salvation's  trumpet  blow. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


31 


"  Come  !  "  cry  the  nations,  deeply  sunk  in  woe  ; 
Go  !  —  for  a  secret  voice  hath  bid  you  "  Go." 
And  there  are  whisperings  from  the  sullen  tomb, 
Just  closed  o'er  talent,  worth,  and  youthful  bloom  ; 
He  speaks  who  yesterday  assumed  the  shield,13 
Here,  in  your  ranks,  prepared  to  take  the  field, 
And  of  his  weapons  made  one  proof  below  ! 
He  from  his  coffin  speaks,  and  bids  you  "  Go ! " 
Yes,  from  his  glory  says,  "  Brief  fife  —  well  trod 
Its  path  of  duty  —  surely  leads  to  God  ! " 

Pass  on,  ye  hours !     Oh !  haste  to  joyful  birth, 
Thou  day !  so  long  foretold,  when  ruined  Earth  — 
The  only  planet  on  which  rays  divine 
Of  Love,  complacent,  do  not  fully  shine  — 
The  only  star  of  all  the  glittering  train 
That  onward  rolls,  and  seems  to  roll  in  vain  — 
Shall  be  restored  to  His  exalted  sway 
Whom  atoms  serve,  and  worlds,  immense,  obey. 


It  comes !  it  comes !  —  already  I  behold 
Millennial  splendors  to  all  lands  unrolled. 
Issuing  in  glory  from  her  night  of  woes, 
What  wondrous  scenes  shall  Earth  to  Heaven  disclose ! 
Sin,  the  Destroyer,  and  its  fruits,  unknown,  — 
Religion  treads  an  Eden  now  her  own. 
What  millions  gather  at  the  hallowed  time, 
When  Labor  pauses  at  the  Sabbath's  chime  ! 


32  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

What  little  ones  are  grouped,  in  flocks,  untold, 
Within  the  Sabbath  School's  delightful  fold ! 
And  every  lamb,  led  by  the  Shepherd,  seen 
By  sparkling  founts,  in  fields  of  living  green. 
No  hasting  heralds  search  the  heathen  world ; 
On  every  hill,  behold  !  the  Cross  unfurled. 
Peace  o'er  the  nations  in  rich  beauty  shed, 
One  family  of  love  —  one  Church  —  one  Head  ; 
And  Earth  returned  from  bondage,  guilt,  and  tears, 
A  weary  wanderer  of  six  thousand  years  ! 


POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


33 


NOTES 


1.  Sparks's  American  Biography. 

2.  Andover  Theological  Seminary. 

3.  In  connection  with  Messrs.  Newell,  Judson,  Nott,  and  Hall,  he 
held  frequent  consultations  on  this  momentous  subject,  which  resulted 
in  a  resolution  to  combine  their  exertions  for  effecting  a  mission  to  for- 
eign lands.  There  is  a  beautiful  grove  that  spreads  itself  in  the  rear 
of  the  buildings  of  the  Andover  Theological  Seminary;  and  "along 
that  shady  walk,"  says  one  of  his  fellow-missionaries,  "  where  I  have 
often  walked  alone,  Mr.  Mills  has  frequently  been  my  companion,  and 
there  urged  the  importance  of  missions  to  the  heathen.  And  when 
we  had  reached  some  sequestered  spot,  where  there  was  no  fear  of  in- 
terruption, he  would  say,  — '  Come,  God  can  guide  us  right ;  let  us 
kneel  down  and  pray  ; '  and  then  he  would  pour  out  his  soul  in  ar- 
dent supplication  for  the  blessing  of  God,  and  the  guidance  of  his 
Holy  Spirit." — Life  of  Samuel  J.  Mills. 


4.  St.  Augustine,  that  sublime  genius,  that  illustrious  father  and 
great  luminary  of  the  church,  whose  fame  filled  the  whole  Christian 
world  in  the  latter  part  of  the  fourth,  and  beginning  of  the  fifth  cen- 
tury, was,  till  his  28th  year,  only  a  "  bitterness  to  her  that  bore  him." 
From  his  own  subsequent  confession,  he  was  deaf  to  the  voice  of  con- 
science :  he  broke  away  from  all  moral  restraints,  and  spent  his  youth 
amid  scenes  of  baseness  and  corruption.  But,  in  all  his  wanderings, 
that  depraved  young  man  was  followed  by  a  weeping,  praying  mother. 
Her  tears,  on  his  account,  watered  the  earth,  and  her  prayers  went  up 
3 


34 


POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


as  incense  before  God.  "  It  is  not  possible,"  said  a  certain  bishop,  in 
reply  to  her  importunity,  that  he  would  endeavor  to  reclaim  her  son  : 
"  Good  woman,  it  is  not  possible  that  a  child  of  such  tears  should 
perish."  And  at  length  the  son  himself  carried  to  his  praying  mother 
the  news  of  his  conversion,  and  she  received  "  the  oil  of  joy  for 
mourning,"  and  "  the  garment  of  praise  for  the  spirit  of  heaviness." 
Mother's  Magazine. 

5.  Harriet  Newell. 

6.  The  introduction  of  New  England  Rum  into  the  Society  and 
Sandwich  Islands  (sent  out  by  professors  of  the  Christian  Religion) 
has  accomplished  much  for  the  hindrance  of  the  Gospel  among  the 
abused  natives. 

7.  Astonishing  Disclosures.  —  A  friend  has  put  into  our  hands,  for 
publication,  the  following  extract  of  a  letter  from  Rev.  Mr.  Spaulding, 
missionary  on  Columbia  river,  dated  February  16,  1837.  The  truth 
of  the  disclosures  cannot  be  doubted,  although  they  are  almost  too 
wicked  to  be  believed  :  — 

"  Even  at  this  great  remove  from  the  fountains  of  moral  corruption, 
a  small  rivulet,  now  and  then,  may  be  seen.  Eveiy  year,  a  greater  or 
less  number  of  Nez  Perces  are  taken  to  St.  Louis,  and  return  (if  their 
constitutions  outride  the  storms  of  intemperance  and  licentiousness) 
to  scatter  the  seeds  of  moral  death  among  their  unsuspecting  country- 
men. Nor  have  I  yet,  I  fear,  caused  to  be  burnt  all  the  packs  of 
cards  which  have  been  sold  for  the  Bible  to  the  inoffensive  people,  long 
seeking  for  and  offering  any  price  to  get  hold  of  that  precious  book. 
So  the  devil  is  found  in  sheep's  clothing,  even  on  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. They  tell  me  they  have  sometimes  given  a  horse  for  a  pack  of 
cards,  which,  they  were  told,  was  positively  the  Word  of  God ;  but 
which  they  now  call  the  book  from  below.  They  say  they  have,  for 
some  time,  distrusted  the  men  that  would  bring  '  fire  water '  to  the 
mountains,  drink  it,  and  then  kill  each  other." — Boston  Courier. 


8.  Rev.  Daniel  Wilson's  Tour  through  Europe. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  35 

9.  The  infidel  philosopher,  Rousseau,  declared  himself  to  he  of 
opinion  that  the  theatre  is,  in  all  cases,  a  school  of  vice.  Though  he 
had  himself  written  for  the  stage,  yet,  when  it  was  proposed  to  estab- 
lish a  theatre  in  the  city  of  Geneva,  he  wrote  against  the  project  with 
zeal  and  great  force,  and  expressed  the  opinion  that  every  friend  of 
pure  morals  (and  of  youth)  ought  to  oppose  it.  Alas !  that  which  in- 
fidelity has  condemned  as  a  fruitful  source  of  corruption  and  shame 
is  publicly  advocated  and  patronized  in  our  midst,  —  yea,  more, — 
vindicated  and  patronized  by  some  who  profess  godliness  ! 

10.  This  refers  to  the  duel  (1838)  between  Messrs.  Graves  and  Cilley, 
both  members  of  Congress.  "  The  wind  was  so  high  that  they  could 
not  shoot  with  accuracy  ;  —  else  the  same  fate  might  have  fallen  to 
Mr.  Graves.    But,  sir, 

Happy  was  he  that  died  ; 

For  many  deaths  will  the  survivor  die. 

There  is  not  an  honorable  man  living,  who  knows  all  the  circum- 
stances, that  would  not,  at  this  moment,  prefer  the  situation  of  Mr. 
Cilley,  stiff  and  cold  as  he  is,  to  that  of  his  antagonist,  and  of  his  an- 
tagonist's seconds,  who  perpetrated  his  murder.  " — Correspondent  of 
the  New  York  Gazette. 

11.  The  glorious  First  of  August,  1838. 

12.  Society  of  Inquiry  on  Missions. 

13.  Mr.  H.  T.,  member  of  the  senior  class  at  the  Theological  Sem- 
inary, at  Andover,  had  just  preached  his  first  and  last  sermon,  in  the 
chapel  of  the  Institution,  and  then  entered  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord. 


36  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  ISLES. 

Lucy  Goodale  Thurston,  daughter  of  Rev.  Asa  and  Mrs.  Lucy 
Thurston  (Missionaries  at  the  Sandwich  Islands,  where  she  was  horn), 
arrived  at  New  York,  on  a  visit  to  the  land  of  her  fathers,  and  imme- 
diately after  sickened  and  died,  at  the  age  of  seventeen  years  and  ten 
months,  leaving  a  sure  and  sweet  hope  of  acceptance  through  the 
Redeemer. 

The  biographer  of  this  interesting  girl  remarks  :  "  Hers  was  a  peace- 
ful home.  Affection  made  it  happy,  and  regular  and  varied  occupa- 
tions added  zest  to  its  enjoyments.  When,  with  her  mother  and  sis- 
ter, she  walked  along  the  shores  of  the  broad  Pacific,  and  listened  to 
tales  of  her  Father-land  and  of  a  Christian  land,  her  heart  never 
sighed  for  the  far-off  region  she  had  brightly  pictured  in  her  imagina- 
tion ;  and  she  returned  with  a  contented  spirit  to  her  quiet  home  at 
Kai-lu-a." 

Fair  Daughter  of  the  sunny  Isles 

That  sit  like  sovereigns  on  the  sea, 
How  shall  I  weave  a  song  of  smiles 

For  her  who  never  smiled  on  me  ? 
Or  how  of  graces  may  I  speak, 

That  never  yet  have  blest  mine  eyes ; 
The  dewy  lip,  the  virgin  cheek 

Of  one  that 's  passed  beyond  the  skies  ? 

I  know  that  Fancy's  pearls  may  shine 
On  Beauty,  and,  like  pearls,  be  cold ; 

That  Flattery's  flowers  round  Wit  may  twine, 
And  die  on  bosoms  they  enfold ; 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  37 

And  well  I  know  the  exalted  Mind, 
That  late  informed  thy  perfect  clay, 

Would  not  with  Love  or  Wit  be  shrined, 
Nor  be  adored  in  servile  lay. 

X  know  that  Death  invests  the  friend 

With  worth,  Existence  never  knew ; 
And  to  defects  we  love  to  lend 

The  veil  that  gives  them  Virtue's  hue  : 
But  thou  requirest  no  taper  light, 

To  shine  on  thy  regretted  tomb  ; 
Nor  flowers  of  verse  —  whose  path  was  bright, 

Whose  life  was  one  bouquet  of  bloom. 

For  thou,  beyond  as  well  the  songs 

As  wailings  of  a  world  like  this, 
Art  mingling  with  the  sister  throngs 

That  early  fled  away  to  bliss ; 
As  far  removed  from  paltry  praise, 

That  vainly  would  thy  notice  win, 
As  from  material  wants  and  ways  — 

As  thy  pure  spirit  is  from  sin  ! 

I  love  to  think  thy  tender  age 

Was  wed  to  Nature's  wondrous  book, 

And  that  thou  didst  upon  its  page 

Of  flowers  and  shells  and  planets  look ; 


38  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

And  yet,  from  flower  and  star  and  sea, 
A  very  child  —  didst  turn  away, 

To  seek  the  glances  dear  to  thee, 
In  thine  own  quiet  Kai-lu-a. 

I  love  to  think  how  free  thou  wast 

From  Fashion's  lore,  that  taints  our  kind ; 
That  yet  is  purchased  at  the  cost 

Of  kingdoms  —  a  transparent  mind  ! 
And  sigh  that  Earth  possesses  few  — 

Such  price  is  for  refinement  paid  — 
Like  thee,  to  simple  Nature  true, 

A  guileless  and  a  trusting  maid. 

I  sigh  for  her  who  nobly  brought 

Such  wealth  from  Hon-o-lu-lu's  strand ; 
And  him,  who,  sending,  meekly  thought 

With  such  to  bless  its  Father-land. 
And  yet 't  is  well,  this  tropic  gem 

All  polished  —  though  to  these  unknown  — 
So  early  shines,  a  diadem, 

Where  shines  the  rainbow-cinctured  throne. 

Thanks  for  the  record  of  thy  worth, 
Traced  by  Affection's  modest  pen  ; 

Tears  were  my  tribute  to  its  truth, 

Though  counted  not  with  weeping  men  ; 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  39 

And  better  thought  I  of  my  race, 

Redeemed  by  excellence  so  rare ; 
And  richer  seemed  abounding  Grace, 

That  sought  and  dowered  such  lovely  heir. 

With  books  that  may  not  perish,  be 

These  pages  numbered !     Youth  shall  know 
How  to  perfection's  symmetry 

A  Daughter  of  the  Lord  may  grow ; 
And  here,  as  mirrored  in  a  glass, 

May  see  how  fair  the  saint  may  shine, 
Who  lets  this  world  unheeded  pass, 

And  surely  seeks  a  world  divine. 

Farewell !  I  weep,  that  flower  so  young, 

The  nursling  of  a  gentle  sky, 
Should  on  our  shores  be  coldly  flung, 

In  all  its  loveliness,  to  die. 
And  yet 't  was  ordered  by  His  will 

Who  wisely  hath  events  decreed : 
Thou  wast  but  lent ;  —  ye  griefs,  be  still ! 

He  but  recalled  when  he  had  need. 


40  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  BRAHMUN. 

"  Babajee,  the  Christian  Brahmun  ;  by  Rev.  Hollis  Read,  American 
Missionary  to  India ;  exhibiting  the  character  of  a  Hindoo  Brah- 
mun, both  before  and  after  his  heart  had  been  subdued  by  Divine 
Grace."  —  "  It  is  not,"  says  the  author,  "  pretended  that  Babajee's 
case  is  a  common  one.  His  zeal  for  the  conversion  of  his  countrymen, 
his  energy  of  character,  his  disinterestedness,  his  spiritual  attainments, 
distinguished  him  from  the  converts  with  whom  I  have  had  the  hap- 
piness of  being  acquainted.  He  was  evidently  selected  by  Divine 
sovereignty  as  a  subject  on  whom  God  might  display  the  riches  of  his 
grace,  for  the  honor  of  his  Name  among  the  heathen,  for  the  confirm- 
ing of  his  promises  to  the  church,  and  for  the  encouragement  of  mis- 
sionaries abroad,  and  the  friends  of  missions  at  home." 

Once  proud  and  blinded  Pundit !  now 

A  meek,  enlightened  teacher,  tell 
Who  wrought  the  change  within  thee  ?  how 

Was  scattered  Brahmu's  potent  spell  ? 
What  moved  a  lying,  swinish,  base, 

Degraded,  sensual  slave  of  sin, 
To  knock,  and  ask,  with  Truth,  a  place, 

To  beg  of  Love  to  let  him  in  ? 

I  read,  for  Lazarus  at  the  gate  — 

Lazarus,  a  sore  from  foot  to  crown  — 

The  willing  angels  flew  to  wait, 

And  God's  attending  wheels  came  down ; 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  41 

Nor  wonder !  for  his  leprous  taint 

Defiled  alone  the  outer  side ; 
Within  the  pauper  shone  the  saint, 

Whom  rags  and  ruin  could  not  hide. 

But  thou  —  whose  outward  misery  told 

The  nakedness  and  need  within, 
Whose  blots  and  blotches  were  the  old 

Corruptions  of  polluting  sin  — 
That  thou  wast  from  thy  dunghill  brought, 

To  be  a  guest  where  monarchs  shine, 
Perfumed  and  fair  —  surpasses  thought 

Of  man,  and  reaches  thought  Divine. 

We  deem  it  marvellous  —  well  we  may  — 

When,  on  these  Christian  altars,  one 
Who  grace  withstood,  is  led  to  lay 

The  offering  of  a  soul  undone  ;  — 
The  offering  of  a  broken  heart, 

Which  God,  in  Christ,  will  not  despise ; 
We  marvel  such  hath  gracious  part 

In  the  Incarnate  Sacrifice. 

Though  round  his  youthful  follies  dwelt 
The  light  of  pure  instruction  given, 

Though  his  maturer  sins  had  felt 

The  brighter  blaze  of  angry  Heaven ; 


42  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

Yet  such  is  nature  unsubdued, 

So  hostile  to  the  law  of  love, 
That,  when  with  meltings  't  is  imbued, 

We  own  the  Hand  is  from  above. 

Yet  thou,  whose  bud  of  childhood  grew 

In  shade  of  more  than  sunless  gloom, 
Who  gavest  Kristna  and  Vishnu, 

The  precious  flower  of  manhood's  bloom, 
Whose  eye,  on  cunning  shasters  fixed, 

Ne'er  rested  on  the  Book  of  God ; 
Whose  vain  mythology  was  mixed 

With  fables,  ancient  as  the  flood, 

And  subtleties  that  sense  confused  : 

Thou,  ne'er  the  child  of  one  true  prayer, 

Mind,  intellect,  and  will  abused  — 
For  whom  no  earnest  Christian  care, 

For  whom  no  watchful  winning  love 
Of  father,  mother,  ever  woke  ; 

That  thou,  thus  bound,  shouldst  soar  above 


And  in  the  True  Religion's  light 

Shouldst  walk,  and  love  its  splendors  well, 
Who  only  knew'st  deluding  night, 

And  in  its  maze  was  left  to  dwell ; 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  43 

And  from  the  tyranny  of  meats 
And  drinks,  and  penances  of  pain, 

Self-given  —  shouldst  joyfully  escape, 
And  sunder  Caste's  terrific  chain, 

Proves  Power  Almighty  —  nothing  less ;  — 

And  teachings  high  I  take  from  thee, 
For  which  I  will  thy  memory  bless, 

O  Christian  Brahmun  Babajee  ! 
That  Heaven  sees  not  the  wretch  so  low, 

Whose  guilt  may  manhood's  stamp  efface, 
Nor  in  the  veriest  heir  of  woe, 

One  sunk  beneath  recovering  Grace. 

And  what  art  thou  ?  and  where  am  I  ? 

Thou,  gazing  on  the  Source  of  Light ; 
Myself,  with  longings  for  the  sky, 

A  prisoner  still  in  shades  of  night. 
Yet,  in  the  lingering  task  of  life, 

Before  me,  shall  I  lessoned  be 
By  thy  calm  faith,  and  prayers,  and  strife 

With  sin,  O  sinless  Gossawee  !  * 


*  Gossa-sree,  a  devotee  in  India,  professing  to  be  a  holy  spiritual  In- 
structor. 


— ♦ 


44  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  JESUIT.* 

The  eager  Jesuit  pushed  his  way 

Where  heroes  fear  to  go, 
And  reared  Love's  holy  symbol  high, 
From  Thibet  to  the  howling  sky 

Of  Huron's  world  of  snow. 

Regardless  or  of  tribe  or  clan, 

Or  skin  of  red  or  white,  — 
He  saw  mankind  as  brethren  —  sought 
From  barbarous,  polished,  and  untaught, 

To  win  his  neophyte. 

No  tortures  turned  his  step  aside :  f 

The  tomahawk  and  knife, 
The  rifle-shot,  the  club,  the  stake, 
But  nerved  his  heart ;  they  could  not  break 

The  purpose  of  his  life. 


*  The  Society  of  Jesus,  or  Jesuits,  founded  by  Loyola,  1539. 

t  The  Jesuit  never  receded  one  foot ;  but  as,  in  a  brave  army,  new 
troops  press  forward  to  fill  the  place  of  the  fallen,  there  were  never 
wauting  heroism  and  enterprise  in  behalf  of  the  Cross. — Bancroft's 
History. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  45 

His  oath  was  stern  ;  he  could  not  wear 

The  prelate's  jewelled  crest ! 
He  moral  strength  might  only  find, 
Enough  !  —  in  wielding  plastic  mind ; 

To  mould  it,  his  behest 

To  yoke  in  papal  bondage  men, 

To  elevate  the  Cross, 
The  Jesuit  freely  gave  himself: 
To  this,  fame,  pleasure,  ease,  and  pelf, 

He  counted  but  as  dross. 


Yes,  death  he  shunned  not,  courted,  if 
Rome  might  the  gainer  be.  * 

O  Soldier  in  a  better  cause  ! 

Defender  of  sublimer  laws ! 
How  is  it  now  with  thee  ? 


*  The  wigwams  are  set  on  fire  ;  the  Mohawks  approach  the  chapel, 
and  Father  Anthony  Daniel  serenely  advances  to  meet  them  ;  aston- 
ishment seizes  the  barbarians.  At  length,  drawing  nearer,  they  dis- 
charge at  him  a  flight  of  arrows.  All  gashed  and  rent  by  wounds,  he 
still  continues  to  speak  with  surprising  energy,  —  now  inspiring  fear 
of  the  divine  anger,  and  again,  in  gentle  tones,  yet  of  more  piercing 
power  than  the  whoops  of  savages,  breathing  the  affectionate  messa- 
ges of  mercy  and  grace.  The  victim  to  the  heroism  of  charity  dies  ; 
the  name  of  Jesus  on  his  lips  ;  the  wilderness  gave  him  a  grave  ;  the 
Huron  nation  were  his  mourners. — Bancroft's  History. 


46  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

Art  tliou,  to  true  Religion  sworn, 

As  eager  for  thy  Lord, 
To  plant  at  home,  or  at  earth's  end, 
Memorials  of  thy  heavenly  Friend, 

With  Heaven  for  thy  reward  ? 

Ho  !  thou  "  at  ease  in  Zion  "  —  fold 

Thine  arms  upon  thy  breast, 
And  tell  thy  Saviour,  if  thou  durst, 
For  his  dear  Name  are  counted  curst, 
Fame,  pleasure,  health,  and  rest. 

And  tell  Him,  if  thou  canst,  that  thou 

Thy  fellow-man  to  save  — 
From  Thibet's  grove  to  Huron's  waste, 
Would'st  go  and  toil,  yes,  gladly  taste 
The  wormwood  of  the  slave.* 

And  tell  Him  that  nor  fagot,  knife, 

Nor  savage  foe,  hath  frown 
To  thee,  who  pantest,  for  his  Name, 
To  war  with  treachery,  trial,  shame, 
And  take  the  martyr's  crown  ; 


*  In  the  early  history  of  Missions,  it  is  recorded,  that  devoted  men 
sold  themselves  into  voluntary  bondage,  that  they  might  thus  be  en- 
abled the  more  effectually  to  labor  for  the  conversion  of  the  slave. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  47 

That  earnest  is  thy  love  for  Him, 

As  for  the  Vatican 
The  patient,  persevering  love 
That  heaven  and  earth  and  hell  would  move, 

Erroneously,  for  man  ; 

And  that  thou  countest  ocean's  hoards, 

In  treasure-depths  unpriced, 
As  nought,  if  thou  mayst  win  from  loss, 
And  set  —  a  star  above  the  Cross  — 

One  soul  for  Jesus  Christ ! 


CHRIST  IS  COMING! 

Christ  is  coming  !  these  his  signs : 
Tumults  in  the  air  and  earth, 

Sword  that  dipt  in  vengeance  shines, 
Woes  and  wonders  sprung  to  birth, 

Show  to  faith's  discerning  eye, 

Christ,  the  very  God,  is  nigh. 

Christ  is  coming  in  the  storm ! 

Working  on  the  wretch  His  will, 
When  his  anger  waxeth  warm : 

Christ  is  coming  in  the  still 
Whispers  of  his  Spirit's  love, 
Winning  weeping  souls  above. 


48  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


Christ  is  coming !  yes,  in  clouds ; 

Every  eye  shall  see  Him  then ; 
Rising  from  their  dusty  shrouds, 

On  Him  is  the  gaze  of  men, 
Where  the  judgment-throne  is  wheeled, 
Where  all  secrets  are  revealed. 

Christ  is  coming !  fleeing  breath 

Shall  His  awful  token  be ; 
Sinner,  know !  thy  day  of  death 

Is  the  judgment-day  for  thee ! 
Who  shall  of  the  future  year 
Talk,  when  now  the  Judge  is  here  ? 


A  SLAVE  IS  LN  MY  HOUSE  TO-NIGHT.* 

A  slave  is  in  my  house  to-night, 

He  flies  from  Southrons  and  the  Chain  ; 

Man  made  him  timid  —  morning's  light 
Will  see  his  flight  again. 

I  bid  him  stay  with  strong  request ; 

My  strong  request  he  will  deny : 
The  partridge,  hunted  from  its  nest, 

Continually  must  fly. 


*  A  recent  fact. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  49 


I  give  him  food,  I  give  a  bed, 

Where  his  old  limbs  at  ease  may  be ; 

I  watch  his  sleep,  but  sleep  has  fled, 
In  fear  of  such  as  me. 

Flashes  along  the  walls  a  whip ! 

Bends  o'er  his  bed  the  overseer  ! 
Grins  on  the  wretch  a  traitorous  lip  ! 

The  blood-hound  scents  him  here  !  * 

I  cannot  blame  him  ;  stripes  and  tears 
Have  taught  him  of  Oppression's  power ; 

Can  Pity  tasks  of  fifty  years 
Unlearn  in  one  short  hour  ? 

Go,  fugitive !  yet  not  like  Cain ; 

There  is  no  guilt  upon  thy  face ; 
Thy  master  wears  a  burning  stain, 

Repentance  can't  efface,  f 

Go  !  for  an  angel  entertained 

Art  thou,  methinks,  to  me  and  mine  ; 

Our  zeal  —  not  lost  —  perhaps  had  waned ; 
Freedom  !  't  is  henceforth  thine. 


*  Calling  the  poor  fellow  in  the  morning,  I  found  he  had  secured 
his  chamber  door,  on  the  inside,  during  the  night ;  such  was  his  fear 
of  his  fellow-man  ! 

f  We  forgive  the  repenting  slaveholder ;  but  the  consequences  of 
his  crime  remain. 


50  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


TO  MY  MOTHER  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Six  years  have  come,  six  years  have  flown, 

My  Mother !  since  we  met ; 
And  though  this  heart  has  wept  alone, 

It  never  could  forget 
The  happy  hours  of  Infancy, 

The  hours  unknown  to  care  — 
When,  sheltered  in  a  Mother's  love, 

It  fondly  nestled  there. 

Mother  !  I  well  remember  thou 

Wouldst  smile  upon  thy  boy, 
And  warmly  on  his  childish  brow 

Imprint  the  kiss  of  joy. 
I  wondered  why  my  gladness  then 

Was  changed  to  sudden  fear, 
When  on  my  glowing  cheek  I  felt 

The  traces  of  a  tear. 

And  Memory  lingers  at  the  hour 

When,  leaving  all  my  play, 
I  sought  her  presence  from  whose  smiles 

I  was  not  wont  to  stray. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  51 

I  was  a  "  Mother-boy  "  I  knew, 

Yet  was  I  much  to  blame  ? 
For  pleasure  of  the  heart  like  this, 

The  world  has  not  a  name. 

I  slept  —  but  thou  eouldst  not ;  for  oft 

My  sleep,  unquiet,  told 
Of  sickness  stealing  o'er  my  frame, 

And  midnight  saw  thee  hold 
Thy  child  within  thy  weary  arms ; 

Whilst  thou,  to  nature  true, 
"Wouldst  soothe  my  frequent  pain  with  all 

A  Mother's  love  could  do. 

Long  years  have  wandered  by  since  then, 

And  I  have  sped  my  way 
Far  from  Xew  England's  hills,  where  I 

First  hailed  the  laughing  day ; 
Yet,  Mother !  truant  thought  returns, 

And  lingers  oft  with  thee : 
Hast  thou  not,  O  my  parent !  yet 

A  blessing  left  for  me  ? 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast,  for  Age 

Has  silvered  o'er  thy  hair  ; 
Thine  eye  is  dim,  thy  cheek  is  pale  — 

Time  sets  his  signet  there  ; 


52  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


Yet  dearer,  dearer  to  this  heart, 

That  thin  and  snowy  curl, 
My  Mother !  than  the  auburn  locks  — 

Thy  glory  when  a  girl. 

How  could  it  fail  to  touch  my  heart 

With  filial  thought,  when  I 
Knew  it  was  care  for  me  that  paled 

Thy  cheek  and  dimmed  thine  eye  ? 
Yes,  eloquent  the  tender  glance 

That  thou  dost  turn  on  me  ; 
Dimly,  yet  kindly  — in  that  look 

How  much  of  love  I  see  ! 

Be  it  my  lot  to  smooth  the  way, 

Before  thy  pilgrim  feet ; 
And  cause  the  heart  that  yearned  for  me, 

Long,  long  with  hope  to  beat. 
Be  it  my  lot  to  pillow  where 

Thou  seek'st  thy  last  repose ; 
One  little  flower  shall  mark  the  spot  — 

The  simple  churchyard  rose. 

Philadelphia,  1823. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  53 


Written  for  the  Consecration  of  the  Cemetery  in  "Westborough, 
Massachusetts;  1846. 

A  thought  has  lingered  at  the  grave, 
A  holy  thought  that  could  not  die, 

Since  Abra'm  chose  Machpelah's  cave 
Where  Sarah  might  in  slumber  lie. 

The  garden's  had  a  thought  profound, 
Still  moving  wonder,  love,  and  tears, 

Since  Jesus,  in  the  olive  ground, 
Encountered  more  than  mortal  fears. 

The  Grave  and  Garden  bring  to  us 

Alternate  terror  and  delight : 
With  that  is  seen  the  midnight  curse ; 

With  this,  a  heaven  of  noonday  light. 

And  in  the  garden  was  a  tomb,* 
The  first  in  which  Perfection  lay,  — 

The  first  whose  everlasting  gloom 
Was  chased  by  Resurrection's  ray. 

*  John  xix.  41. 


54  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Since,  from  its  confines  darkness  rolled, 
When  angels  rolled  away  the  stone, 

A  Lamp  before  its  shrine  of  gold, 
With  spices  fed,  has  purely  shone. 

Then  here  we  '11  bring  our  sacred  dead, 
To  sleep  till  Time  and  Death  are  o'er ; 

Our  loved,  with  whom  sweet  Memories  tread, 
All  winged  and  bright  —  the  solemn  shore. 

And  here  the  impressive  stone  will  teach 
The  lesson  dust  is  slow  to  learn ; 

Though  Earth's  continual  voices  preach  : 
"  The  dust  shall  unto  dust  return ! " 

And  here,  as  bleeds  the  wounded  heart, 
The  wounded  heart  shall  solace  feel, 

And  see  that  Mercy  winged  the  dart ; 
For  Mercy  only  wounds  to  heal. 


HYMN. 

Heaven,  to  be  a  happy  place,  must  be  a  holy  place. 

My  God,  what  were  Thy  heaven  to  me, 
If  I,  'mid  robes,  and  light,  and  song, 

Were  not,  in  Heaven,  for  ever  free 
From  fetters  that  to  earth  belong  ? 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  55 

The  fount  of  pleasure,  always  clear, 

Aud  sparkling,  deep,  and  full,  and  wide, 

Touched  by  Sin's  wormwood,  would  appear 
Black,  sluggish,  dead,  as  Sodom's  tide. 

The  Tree  of  Life,  whose  leaves  can  heal, 
Whose  fruits  are  twelve,  whose  shade  is  fair, 

Swept  by  Sin's  simoom,  would  reveal 
A  blasted  trunk,  rent,  dry,  and  bare. 

The  glory,  like  a  chrysolite, 

The  gates  of  pearl,  the  streets  of  gold, 
Breathed  on  by  Sin,  would  fade,  as  Night 

Had  wrapt  them  in  its  dreadful  fold. 

Should  David  there  attempt  the  lyre, 

"Whose  music  shakes  the  burning  throne,  — 

One  strain,  awoke,  of  wrong  desire, 

Would  swell  a  song  to  heaven  unknown. 

Should  Peter  kneel  with  myriads  there, 
While  inly  burned  ambition's  flame  — 

His  robe,  unlike  the  snows  they  wear, 
Would  blush  in  deepest  hues  of  shame. 

Should,  in  some  hidden  spot  —  if  hid 
One  spot  of  all  Thy  worlds  could  be  — 

A  Judas  cherish  thought  forbid, 

And  deem  in  heaven  't  was  safe  from  Thee, 


56  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


The  light  that  from  the  Lamb  proceeds, 
Whose  wondrous  glory  none  may  tell, 

That  plays  in  flame  round  secret  deeds, 
Would  make  his  shelter  glare  with  hell. 


THE  BIBLE  IN  COMMON  SCHOOLS. 

To  seek  the  goodly  Knowledge, 

Advanced  our  mother  Eve ; 
But  she  took  a  step  at  which  the  world 

Has  never  ceased  to  grieve. 

From  the  lion  crouching  by  her, 

From  the  eagle  on  the  wing, 
She  turned  to  one  of  cunning  speech, 

Whose  council  hid  a  sting. 

Though  Paradise,  to  teach  her, 

Talked  in  its  silvery  brooks  ; 
And  the  gorgeous  flowers  and  emerald  grass 

Whispered  in  their  sweet  looks ; 

Entreating  her  to  tarry, 

And,  like  a  gentle  bride, 
To  gather  the  upspringing  Truth, 

At  thoughtful  Adam's  side  ; 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  57 

She  marched  where  seeming  Wisdom 

Invited  her  to  find ; 
And,  in  her  journey  to  the  tree, 

Left  Wisdom  far  behind. 

"  Life,  only  for  the  plucking  !  " 
She  felt  the  Tempter's  breath ; 
And  ate,  and  found  the  pleasant  fruit 
To  her  and  hers  was  Death. 

As  't  was  in  Eden,  centuries 

Ago,  so  is  it  now  : 
Her  children  seek  alluring  fruit 

From  Sin's  deceitful  bough. 

Be  wise,  ye  sage  instructors  ! 

The  lesson  is  to  you  ; 
For,  as  the  throne  of  God  is  Truth, 

Eternally  't  is  true  — 

His  step  is  still  to  sorrow, 

His  march  will  end  in  fear, 
Who,  journeying  on  to  Knowledge,  leaves 

The  Bible  in  the  rear ! 


58  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


MISSIONS. 

Roll  off,  ye  clouds,  and  show  a  sky, 

Bathed,  as  when  "  shepherds  watched  by  night; " 
Then  will  we  give  to  harps  on  high, 

Songs  from  our  world  of  love  and  light. 

The  clouds,  to  eyes  that  gaze  afar, 

Are  rolling  rapidly  away ; 
Revealing  sparkles  of  the  Star 

That  turns  the  heathen's  night  to  Day. 

'T  was  to  repair  the  heathen's  loss 

That  Missions,  with  her  heart  of  flame, 

And  the  munitions  of  the  Cross, 
Went  boldly  forth  in  Jesus'  name. 

The  scoffer,  in  that  high  crusade, 
Saw  madness  only  —  and  he  smiled ; 

The  Christian,  while  he  blest  and  prayed, 
Deemed  her  a  sweet,  romantic  child. 

Her  march  was  o'er  the  ruined  towers ;  — 
Her  banners  flew  on  every  gale ;  — 

We  heard  the  din  of  falling  powers, 
At  whose  destruction  Sin  grew  pale. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  59 

Her  victories  made  the  scoffer  dumb  ; 

The  Christian  woke  to  faith  and  prayer ; 
And  yet  her  toils  —  a  mighty  sum  — 

Told  every  thing  but  romance  there. 

The  novelty  has  passed  away  ;  — 
There  's  scandal  in  the  very  thought 

That  it  is  novel  to  obey, 

And  love  the  souls  on  Calvary  bought. 

Now,  softly,  silently  departs 

The  herald  to  his  work  of  love ; 
But,  oh  !  for  him,  how  many  hearts 

Are  stirred  by  the  Eternal  Dove  ! 


ACTION. 

God  built  the  world,  and  built  so  well 
That  man  could  nothing  add  thereto ; 

Now,  ruined  by  the  arts  of  hell, 

There  's  something  left  for  man  to  do. 

He  may  relieve  the  clouds  that  fold 
The  earth  below  and  skies  above, 

By  pencils,  dipt  in  radiant  gold, 

That  write  upon  the  darkness  :  "  Love  ! " 


r 


60  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


He  may  to  primal  Day  restore 

The  wildered  nature,  blind  with  sin ; 

A  brighter  robe  than  Adam  wore, 

His  soiled  and  tattered  child  may  win. 

He  mar,  in  pity,  ease  the  woes 

That  take  from  Paradise  their  date ; 

And  calm  with  kindness  Passion's  throes, 
And  blunt  the  glittering  shears  of  Fate. 

He  may  seek  out  the  plundered  man ; 

From  mind  and  body  tear  the  yoke  ; 
A  journeying  good  Samaritan, 

Who  heals  the  heart  that  sin  has  broke. 

Whv  should  he  rest,  for  whom  the  stars 
Wake  all  night  in  their  orbs  divine  ? 

Or  tire,  while  planets,  in  their  cars 
Of  wondrous  glory,  ride  and  shine  ? 

Then  let  him  do  and  sing !  —  for  songs 
Of  Action  yield  intense  delight, 

Where  to  intelligence  belongs 

The  boon,  to  "  rest  not,  Day  nor  Night.1 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  61 


THE  FLAG. 

Some  Ladies  of  Philadelphia  sent  a  Bethel  Flag,  -with  the  emblems  of 
the  Dove  and  Ark,  to  the  American  Chapel  at  Harre,  France. 

We  send  the  blazoned  Dove  and  Ark 

To  her,  across  the  sea, 
Who  in  our  fortunes,  wild  and  dark, 

Sent  us  the  Fleur-de-lis, 
Which  streamed  above  the  artillery's  roar, 

And  the  roll  of  the  warlike  drum : 
That  symbol  speaks  of  strife  no  more ; 

That  martial  strain  is  dumb. 

To  noble  France  a  debt  we  owe  ; 

We  can  't  the  claim  forget ; 
We  will  a  precious  boon  bestow 

On  the  land  of  loved  Fayette. 
No  gold  or  gems  the  gift  enhance 

That  flies  on  zephyr's  wings  ; 
It  carries  to  light-hearted  France 

Word  from  the  King  of  kings. 

Men  think  —  while  pride  dominion  holds  — 

How,  o'er  the  battle  field, 
In  triumph  waved  the  Bourbon  folds 

Where  Frenchmen  could  not  yield  ! 


62  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

But  oh !  this  banner  tells  of  fame 
Earth's  pennons  cannot  win  — 

Of  victory,  in  Immanuel's  Name, 
O'er  helmed  hosts  of  Sin. 

How  glorious  those  old  hills  of  pride 

That  lift  their  tops  of  green, 
Where  Orleans'  lilies,  side  by  side 

With  Freedom's  Stars,  were  seen  ! 
But  how  much  dearer  to  the  mind 

Thoughts  which  these  kindle  now, 
Of  Peace  and  Pardon,  star-entwined, 

That  beam  from  Calvary's  brow ! 

How  dazzling  was  that  meteor's  flight 

From  Notre-Dame  to  Rome, 
Which  blasted  kingdoms  with  its  light, 

And  set  at  last  in  doom ! 
But  this  fair  type  that  has  the  Dove 

Of  gentle  Peace  unfurled, 
Provokes  ambition  far  above 

The  conquest  of  a  world. 

Then  go  !  —  the  flag  Religion  sends,  — 

And  designate  the  dome 
Of  worship,  where  the  Sailor  bends 

To  Him  who  had  no  home ;  — 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  68 

Who  often  taught  within  the  ship, 

Deemed  stricken  and  unblest  — 
The  lofty  mandate  of  whose  lip 

Awed  angry  seas  to  rest. 

Not  only  on  the  Gallic  coasts, 

Or  Loire,  or  winding  Seine, — 
Not  only  o'er  her  naval  hosts, 

Or  troops  of  her  terrene, — 
But  let  each  ocean,  river,  bay, 

Each  vale  and  mountain  crag 
Of  Europe  —  yes  !  of  Earth,  display 

O  God !  Thy  victor  Flag. 


HYMN  OF  WELCOME 

From  a  Sabbath  School  to  their  Pastor,  on  his  return  from  Egypt 
and  Palestine. 

Welcome  to  thee  !  from  palmy  vales, 
"Where  bloom  the  olive  and  the  vine  ; 

From  fervid  suns  and  fragrant  gales  — 
From  lost,  yet  lovely  Palestine  ! 

Thy  feet  have  trod  old  Horeb's  side ; 

Thy  hands  have  gathered  Sharon's  rose ; 
And  thou  hast  bathed  in  Jordan's  tide, 

And  mused  where  Kedron  softly  flows. 


64  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

And  thou  hast  prayed  where  Jesus  prayed, 

On  Olivet,  by  night,  alone  ; 
And  where  his  sacred  head  was  laid 

Hast  coveted  to  lay  thine  own. 

And  thou  hast  drunk  of  cold  sweet  Nile ; 

And  looked  on  elder  Egypt's  face, 
Whose  wrinkles  woke  the  frequent  smile, — 

Whose  crimes,  the  plea  for  saving  grace. 

Again  by  thee  the  soil  is  pressed 
Where  Syrian  robbers  never  roam ; 

Where  Zion  finds  a  peaceful  rest, 

And  where  are  Flock,  and  Friends,  and  Home. 

Welcome  to  this,  our  favored  land  ! 

Whose  rocks  defy  a  stormy  sea ; 
Whose  towering  hills  sublimely  stand, 

The  guardians  of  the  truly  Free. 

And  welcome  to. our  Sabbath  School ! 

Where  cluster  thoughts  of  happy  hours ; 
Where  Love  extends  her  gentle  rule ; 

Where  bud  and  bloom  immortal  flowers ! 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  65 


YEARS  PAST— YEARS  TO  COME. 

O  years  !  how  is  your  gift  defiled 
With  deep-writ  characters  of  shame  — 

Lust  of  the  world,  and  passion  wild, 
And  mad  ambition's  guilty  flame ! 

Where  harps  and  hymns  of  beauty  sound 
Ye  're  gone,  earth's  discord  to  declare ; 

And  in  eternity  is  found 

Each  wasted  hour,  a  witness  there. 

Yes,  and  a  ransom  is  not  known, 
Nor  bribe  to  rescue  moments  fled ; 

All  else  redeem  !  but  these,  once  flown, 
Return  not  from  the  silent  dead. 

Departed  hours !  and  must  ye  die  ? 

None  rescued  of  you  all  for  God ; 
Pearls  without  price !  and  do  ye  lie 

Buried  with  years  beyond  the  flood  ? 

Not  wholly  so  —  across  the  night 
That  else  had  wrapt  us  in  its  shade, 

The  finger,  dipt  in  lovely  light 
Of  holy  hope  and  heaven,  is  laid. 
5 


66  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

And  in  its  shining  beams  is  seen 

The  Christian  Army's  onward  march ; 

Whose  spears  are  of  immortal  sheen, 
Whose  banner  is  the  Rainbow's  arch 

Of  Promise,  to  a  fallen  world, 

That  Sin's  advancing,  dreadful  wave  — 

While  Mercy's  symbol  is  unfurled  — 
Rolls  over  no  redeemless  grave ! 

Onward  they  go ;  of  various  hue, 
And  tribes  of  east  and  western  sun : 

But  kindred  is  the  hope  in  view, 
The  warriors  of  the  Cross  are  one. 

And  mid  their  closing  ranks,  behold 

The  Ark,  the  Church  of  God !  the  song  — 

Beneath  where  wings  of  glory  fold  — 
Goes  up  in  grandeur  from  the  throng. 

Onward !  the  battle  is  the  Lord's, 
To  wage  triumphant  war  with  sin ; 

To  die  —  and  reach  sublime  rewards, 
To  fall  —  and  yet  the  conquest  win. 

Years  may  pass  on,  and  all  that  earth 
Imperishable  deemed,  may  fade ; 

And  Time,  that  marked  her  empires'  birth, 
See  them  in  his  sepulchre  laid ; 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  67 

Yet  onward,  o'er  the  mighty  wreck, 
Shall  press  the  immortal  victor  band  ; 

And  rebel  realms  will  bow  the  neck 
To  Him  whose  is  the  heathen  land. 

Till,  o'er  a  world  by  love  subdued, 

High  Heaven  takes  up  the  conqueror's  strain  ; 
And  voices  of  earth's  multitude 

Repeat  the  joyful  song  again. 

O  God  !  while  moments  mark  their  round, 

Still  guard  us  in  that  mortal  fray  ; 
And  o'er  us,  in  thy  battles  found, 

Reveal  the  star  of  victory's  day. 


THE  CHOIR  IN  NEW  YORK. 

I  went  to  Chapel  some  few  Sundays  since, 

A  stranger,  yet  at  home  within  the  walls 

Where  all  are  welcome.     'T  was  an  early  hour : 

So  I  awhile  surveyed  the  edifice, 

Admiring  well  the  growth  of  piety, 

Or  growth  of  that  fair  city  which  had  changed 

Its  theatres  to  Temples.     Soon  the  seats, 

Spacious,  and  free  to  poor  and  rich  alike, 

Were  filled.     The  holy  man  of  God  his  place 

Ascended ;  silence  reigned,  and  hearts  seemed  hushed 


68  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

At  consciousness  that  Jesus  was  within ; 
When,  presently,  the  Choir  —  whose  ample  seat 
Was  to  the  sacred  pulpit's  rear  assigned, 
And  in  full  view  of  worshippers  —  began : 
He  dies  !  the  Friend  of  Sinners  dies ! 

In  low 
And  sweetly  plaintive  notes,  in  which  I  thought 
The  very  soul  of  harmony  spoke  out, 
Did  many  voices,  well  attuned,  reply, 
Subduingly  —  Here 's  love  beyond  degree  ! 
So  rich,  so  melancholy,  and  so  soft, 
The  strains  that  rose  and  fell  upon  the  ear  — 
So  fitly,  modulation  of  the  tones 
Was  married  to  the  language,  blending  sense 
With  melody,  and  to  the  heart  and  head 
Conveying  truly,  sweetly,  mournfully 
The  import  —  that  my  soul  was  satisfied, 
And  yet  was  troubled.     Could  I  help  but  go 
With  the  sad  story  ?  —  could  I  help  but  hear 
The  voice  of  Salem's  Daughters,  as  they  wept  ?  — 
Or  could  I  then  resist  the  plaintive  call : 
"  Come,  saints,  and  drop  a  tear  or  two  for  Him 
Who  groaned  beneath  your  load  ! "  —  Could  I  refrain 
My  joyful  praise,  as  the  triumphant  burst 
Gave  token  that  the  God  had  left  the  tomb, 
And  risen  Conqueror  and  King ! 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  69 


I  gazed 
Upon  the  leader  of  this  wondrous  power 
Of  minstrelsy,  divine  and  true.     He  sat 
Midst  of  the  Choir,  upon  the  farthest  seat, 
And  highest  —  the  Spirit  he  of  Music 
Sat !     His  venerable  form,  obedient  to 
The  stirring  impulse  of  the  melloAv  sounds, 
Involuntarily  bent,  now  at  the  close, 
Symphonious,  and  now,  to  full  extent 
Expanded,  as  pealed  up  the  harmony, 
While  every  nerve  and  every  fibre  seemed 
Compelled  to  the  sweet  service.     He,  I  saw  — 
Blest  necromancer  !  —  had  infused  his  soul 
Into  the  soul  of  each,  and  each  as  one 
Gave  voice  —  one  mighty  master  moving  all. 

It  wings  devotion,  when  intelligence 
And  skill,  and  piety,  in  concord  join, 
Producing  Music.     Softened  by  its  power, 
The  heart  flows  forth,  and  meekly  entertains 
The_  gospel  message.     Let  not  tuneless  choirs, 
Where  life  is  not,  nor  melody,  nor  taste, 
Essay  the  lofty  praises  of  the  King  ;  — 
For  to  his  shrines  should  such  false  fire  be  brought, 
'T  would  mar  the  sacrifice.     How  heavily, 
How  wearily,  would  grieved  Devotion's  wing 
Soar  then  !     New  unction  must  the  soul  require, 
If  thus  disturbed,  to  worship  God  aright. 


* 


70  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


SUNDAY. 

This  calm  and  sacred  Day,  my  soul 
Will  consecrate,  O  Lord !  to  Thee  ; 

Submissive  to  thy  wise  control, 
Yet  in  her  duty  wholly  free. 

O  glad  subjection  !  that  withholds 
The  passions,  all  inclined  to  roam ; 

And  yet  the  Spirit's  wing  unfolds, 
To  fly,  and  seek  her  native  home. 

Sweet  hours  !  from  Heaven's  eternal  round 
Cut  out,  and  flung  to  us  below, 

That  we  —  such  pleasant  manna  found  — 
May  foretastes  of  the  banquet  know. 

'Mid  arid  wastes,  your  bursting  springs 
Like  diamonds  in  the  desert  shine  ; 

My  lip  to  the  restorer  clings ; 

My  soul  awakes  from  more  than  wine. 

Refreshed  and  thoughtful,  I  discern 
What  glittering  bubbles  I  pursue ; 

That 't  is  the  dust  which  angels  spurn, 
I  mould  to  gods  and  worship  too ! 


POETRY   OF    LITE.  71 

I  will  not  breathe  malaria  more, 

When  such  celestial  airs  invite ; 
My  faith  rejects  this  dreary  shore, 

And  longs  to  rise  and  bathe  in  light. 

This  incense  time  will  I  retire 

From  sacrifice  the  six  days  paid, 
And  watch  and  feed  the  vestal  fire 

Upon  the  heart's  pure  altar  laid. 

So  Earth,  though  false,  shall  see  there 's  given 
For  her,  some  glimpses  of  the  True  ; 

And  I,  at  last,  when  reaching  Heaven, 
Find  its  high  bliss  not  wholly  new. 

So,  touched  by  grace,  will  snap  each  bond 
Like  yielding  flax  before  the  flame ; 

And  tinsel,  sought  with  love,  too  fond, 
Fade  in  the  gold  of  Jesus'  Name. 

When,  free  from  folly,  I  shall  rise 

Above  a  world  of  night  and  sin, 
And  dip  my  pinions  in  the  skies, 

And  holiness  for  ever  win. 


72  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


E.  A.  A.  W. 

She  came,  and,  like  a  star  divine, 

She  made  our  mortal  bliss  more  bright ; 

Like  beams  that  through  the  tempest  shine, 
She  fringed  our  passing  clouds  with  light. 

The  star  has  faded  from  the  sky,  — 
The  beams  are  lost  in  heavenly  blue ; 

There  is  a  Light  that  cannot  die, 
There  is  a  Life  serene  and  true. 

She  loved  the  Light,  and  round  her  feet 
Now  laughs  and  leaps  perpetual  Day ; 

She  chose  the  Life,  and  now  repeat 
Her  pulses  their  immortal  play. 

We  saw  the  promise  of  the  child 

The  intellectual  girl  fulfil ; 
The  nature,  generous,  free,  and  wild, 

By  Grace  subdued,  was  noble  still. 

And  nobler — for  Religion  takes 
From  Nature  only  stains  of  sin ; 

The  Beautiful  she  ever  makes 
More  beautiful,  without,  within. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  73 

In  Joy's  pure  waters  bade  to  dip,  — 

And  small  of  common  griefs  her  store,  — 

She  touched  the  ware  with  Hope's  warm  lip, 
Gazed  on  her  God,  and  drank  no  more. 

She  prest  "  a  soft,  a  downy  bed," 
Made  for  his  daughter  by  the  King  : 

Death  came  —  she  knew  the  Rider's  tread, 
But  light  lay  on  his  raven  wing. 

She  rose,  and  broke  the  bars  of  clay, 

And  sprang  at  once  from  tears  and  dust,  — 

More  glorious  on  her  shining  way 

Than  when  she  came  from  God  at  first. 

For,  wounded  in  the  primal  crime, 

And  healed  by  Calvary's  wondrous  power, 

No  lily  of  the  spotless  clinie 

Blooms  like  the  amaranthine  flower. 

She  died  —  not  hers,  but  ours,  the  loss ; 

She  died  —  not  ours,  but  hers,  the  gain : 
We  die,  whom  yet  the  billows  toss  ; 

She  lives,  who's  past  the  surging  main. 

So  in  the  mansion  still  and  dark 
TVe  laid  her  form,  decay  to  share  ; 

TVe  knew  that  Victory's  burning  spark 
Irradiates  every  atom  there. 


74  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

While  cold  and  heat,  and  storm  and  frost, 
Shall  come  and  go,  nor  break  her  sleep,  • 

Her  loveliness  will  ne'er  be  lost  — 
Affection  will  her  image  keep. 

Of  her  sweet  worth  we  '11  think  and  talk, 
Nor  deem  such  virtues  can  be  dead  ; 

And  in  the  same  bright  faith  we  '11  walk, 
By  which  her  constant  step  was  led. 


WEEP  NOT  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

I  hear  the  voice 
Of  the  expecting  grave. — Martyr  of  Antioch. 

The  grave  hath  voice,  and  seems  to  say : 

"  Weep  ye,  who  on  my  surface  tread, 
Condemned  to  bear  the  heat  of  day  — 

But  weep  not  for  the  slumbering  Dead. 
Weep  ye  for  those  for  whom  no  tear 

Is  given,  the  sorrowing,  the  distressed, 
The  troubled,  whom  there  's  none  to  cheer  ■ 

But  not  for  him  who  is  at  rest 

Weep  for  the  living  wretch,  whose  sighs 
Go  up  for  loss  of  friend  and  lover ; 

For  him  that  as  survivor  dies, 

Not  him  whose  parting  pangs  are  over. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  75 

"Weep  for  the  living ;  —  lie 's  alone ;  — 
Few  are  the  living ;  —  who  may  know 

How  few,  compared  to  the  unknown 
Nations  of  men  that  sleep  below  ! 

"  Weep  for  the  sufferer  who  is  tost 

On  restless  seas  of  pain  and  ill, 
But  not  for  him  who,  having  crossed 

The  ocean,  rides  secure  and  still. 
Weep  for  the  sinner,  sadder  far  — 

Who  wanders  in  the  depths  of  night ; 
But  not  for  him  on  whom  the  Star 

Of  Morning  trembles  out  in  light. 

"  Weep,  weep  for  her  who  comes  to  weep 

Where  her  sweet  infant  lies  full  low  — 
Not  for  the  spark  whose  upward  leap 

Hath  made  it  flame  with  cherubs  so  ! 
Weep  for  the  prisoner,  for  the  heir 

Of  misery,  toil,  and  tears,  and  pain  — 
But  not  for  those,  escaped,  who  share 

Immortal  joys,  undying  gain  !  " 


76  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  SAILOR  AS  HE  WAS  — AS  HE  IS. 

The  sport  of  yon  deceitful  wave, 
He  toiled  where  dangers  oft  appear ; 
And  careless  trod  the  billowy  grave, 
Stranger  to  thought  or  fear. 

Unknown  the  power  that  stayed  his  youth, 
The  God  that  holds  the  sea  unknown  — 
On  his  dark  soul  no  ray  of  truth 
With  kindly  impulse  shown. 

Fiercely  the  sullen  midnight  storm 
In  anger  mingled  wave  and  sky ; 
While  the  red  lightning  scathed  his  form, 
His  curse  was  heard  on  high. 

The  thunders  shook  the  reeling  mast, 
The  vessel  rent  by  every  sea  — 
No  tear  was  given  to  the  past, 
Nor  to  futurity. 

Then  burst  the  cry  of  agony, 
Then  quailed  the  stoutest  on  that  deck  ; 
The  toiling  vessel  climbed  on  high, 
And  plunged,  a  buried  wreck. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  77 

No  prayer  was  wafted  io  the.  throne  — 
Could  the  profane,  the  scoffer  pray  ? 
No  !  —  wretched,  trembling,  and  alone, 
His  spirit  fled  away. 

Weep,  Sailor !  for  thy  comrade  weep, 
For  he  was  noble,  generous,  free ; 
Yet  passed  he,  in  transgression  deep, 
To  his  eternity. 

Oh  !  had  he  scanned  the  living  chart, 
By  which  the  unerring  course  is  laid, 
His  vision  purged,  made  clean  in  heart, 
The  wanderer  ne'er  had  strayed. 

Weep  for  the  dead  !  yet  with  thy  tears 
Blend  earnest  love  for  grace  divine  ; 
Sailor !  a  happier  dawn  appears  — 
Hope  's  beaming  star  is  thine. 

The  Man  of  Nazareth  calls  to  thee, 
He  bids  thy  toils  and  sorrows  cease ; 
The  voice  that  calmed  proud  Galilee, 
Speaks  to  the  weary,  Peace. 

And  He  —  or  be  thy  peaceful  way 
The  dark  blue  wave,  or  when  afar, 
By  gathering  perils  led  astray  — 
Will  be  thy  Morning  Star. 


78  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Safe  in  the  tempest  as  the  calm, 
Art  thou  that  seek'st  the  mercy-seat ; 
Sailor  !  rejoice,  death  boasts  a  charm, 
Leading  to  Jesus'  feet. 


THE  GREATEST  HONOR. 

To  waken  Mind  by  skilful  touch ; 

To  call  up  Mind's  sequestered  light, 
And  bid  it  shine  for  God,  is  much ; 

And  asks  for  Mind's  collected  might. 

To  find  the  spot  within  the  heart, 

Where  dwells  contrition's  pearly  tear ; 

And,  by  the  Spirit's  holy  art, 
To  see  it  flow  in  sorrow  here ; 

To  quicken  thoughts  that  slumbered  long, 
And  bid  them  spread  an  eagle's  wing, 

And  gain  the  fields  of  flower  and  song, 

Where  thoughts  yield  sweets  without  a  sting ; 

To  follow  him  who  loves  to  roam 

In  ways  by  folly  only  trod  ; 
And  bring  the  wanderer  back  to  home, 

The  rebel  outcast  to  his  God ; 


POLTKY    OF    LIFE.  79 

Is  highest  joy ;  —  to  better  thought 

It  has  an  honor  greater  far 
Than  thrones  have  ever  seized  or  bought, 

Than  clusters  round  a  king  or  czar. 

Earth  knowledge  has  of  real  bliss  ; 

"  Heaven  lies  about "  the  spirit  then ; 
Nay  !  Heaven  can  have  no  joy  like  this  : 

To  plead  for  Christ  with  erring  men. 


B.  W.  C. 

A  Welsh  Missionary  of  the  American  Sunday  School  Union, 
in  the  West. 

Servant  of  God  !  from  thy  rude  Wales, 

Rude,  yet  most  lovely  —  with  strong  hands, 
And  soul  on  fire,  that  never  fails 

In  fray  •with  Error's  dreadful  bands, 
Still  for  the  True  and  Right  to  win  — 

Thou  com'st,  with  holy  burden  prest, 
The  bleating  lambs  to  gather  in 

Yr  ysgol  sul  —  draw  yn  y  "West ! 

Who  of  us  heard  thee  boldly  fling 
Tones,  like  a  trumpet,  to  the  heart, 

That  yet  through  all  its  chambers  ring  — 
Nor  owned  the  mighty  master's  art 


80  POETRY   OF    IvIFE. 

That  painted  on  the  sombre  sky 

His  griefs  whom  Ignorance  opprest  — 

That  pictured  to  the  joyous  eye  : 
Yr  ysgol  sul  — draw  yn  y  West ! 

Who  heard  —  nor  blest  the  heart  and  head 

That  in  deep  faith  "  the  Union "  planned? 
Who  heard  —  nor  blest  the  Living  Bread 

Those  waters  bear  through  all  the  land  ? 
Nor  prayed  that  toil  and  liberal  gold 

Might  sow  the  field  by  tares  possest  — 
Till  stands,  like  grain,  in  thousand  fold, 

Yr  ysgol  sul  —  draw  yn  y  West ! 

Now  God  be  with  thee  !  —  other  eyes 

Shall  with  most  precious  tears  be  dim ; 
Thy  burning  words  will  win  the  wise, 

And  lead  the  noble  youth  to  Him  : 
But  He  will  hear  no  truer  prayer 

Than  ours,  that  His  bright  wing  may  rest 
On  thy  dear  love,  and  His  sweet  care ; 

The  Sunday  School  in  yonder  West ! 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  81 


THE  CHILD  AT  REST. 

"  Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb  ! " 
To  her  who  knew  no  weary  years ; 

"  And  give  these  sacred  relics  room," 
That  seek  no  kind  retreat  from  tears. 

Unveil  to  one  of  that  sweet  band 
Whom  Jesus  calls  the  truly  "  blest ; " 

Who,  early,  in  the  better  land, 
A  little  traveller  —  went  to  rest. 

Though  feeble,  who  in  faith  was  strong ; 

Though  modest,  who  for  truth  was  bold ; 
Whose  days  by  measure,  were  not  long ; 

By  knowledge  reckoned,  who  was  old. 

For  she  was  taught  in  Wisdom's  ways ; 

And  well  she  learned  the  simple  task 
To  trust  the  Saviour  when  He  says 

That  they  shall  always  have  who  ask. 

And  she  in  artless  accents  prayed, 

And  Heaven  the  infant  suppliant  knew. 

Where  our  maturer  wants  are  laid, 
May  they  obtain  such  favor  too  ! 
6 


82  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

"  Unveil  thy  bosom,  faithful  tomb  ! " 
And  give  these  ashes  blest  repose, 
While  come  and  go,  in  storm  and  bloom, 
The  winter's  frost,  the  summer's  rose. 


SINCE  YOU,  O  EUROPE !  CROWD  OUR 
SHORES. 

Since  you,  O  Europe  !  crowd  our  shores, 

In  malice  or  in  wit  — 
With  your  vile  paupers,  pests,  and  thieves,  — 

The  refuse  of  the  pit ; 

Hoping  your  carrion-god  will  fix 

With  us  his  dreadful  throne, 
Till  all  our  sweet  and  blessed  land 

Is  putrid  as  your  own ;  — 

We,  roused  to  action,  cry  "  Revenge ! " 
"  Revenge  !  "  we,  Christians,  swear ; 

We  vow  in  solemn  hymn  to  God, 
We  vow  in  awful  prayer, 

.Never  to  let  the  purpose  rest, 

Nor  sword  to  sheath  be  given, 
Till,  by  our  earnest,  peaceful  strife, 

Europe  is  won  to  Heaven  ! 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  83 


THE  LOST. 

During  the  administration  of  the  Lordrs  Supper,  and  while  the  pas- 
tor was  in  the  midst  of  a  powerful  appeal  to  the  unawakened,  the 
Bellman  was  heard  in  the  street.  The  minister  paused,  as  the  de- 
scription of  a  youthful  fugitive  was  given  in  clear  tones  by  the  crier  ; 
and  then,  seizing  the  thought,  he  exclaimed — "A  child  is  lost!  a 
child  is  lost !  What  if  some  attending  angel,  witnessing  this  com- 
munion season,  and  wondering  at  the  rejection  of  the  Saviour  by  the 
proud  heart,  should  now  give  audible  testimony  of  his  grief,  and 
beholding  some  sinner  here  making  his  election  for  a  hopeless  eter- 
nity, should  startle  us  with  the  cry  — '  A  soul  is  lost !  a  soul  is  lost ! ' " 

Why  on  our  holy  service  steals 

Alarum  of  the  bell  ? 
A  child  is  lost  I  —  that  cry  reveals 

The  agony  too  'well. 
A  child  is  lost !  and  with  the  blow 

A  father's  heart  is  stirred ; 
The  mother  —  who  may  scan  her  woe, 

Felt,  but  unknown  to  word  ! 

A  child  is  lost !  and  ready  feet 

To  seek  and  save  are  out, 
And  lane  and  court  and  crowded  street 

Are  searched  with  call  and  shout. 


84  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


The  generous  toil  is  not  in  vain  ; 

Success  succeeds  alarms  — 
The  little  fugitive  again 

Has  blest  its  mother's  arms. 

And,  for  this  wanderer,  speechless  fears 

Were  felt,  that  mocked  control ; 
And  for  its  loss  fell  heavy  tears  — 

What  if  it  were  a  soul  1 
A  soul,  for  whom  no  'larum  rings, 

Kind  rescuing  to  call  — 
For  whose  redemption  never  springs 

Hope,  that  yet  comes  to  all ! 

Oh !  smote  but  now  the  startled  ear 

As  smites  that  warning  bell, 
One  note  of  the  despairing  fear 

That  fills  the  vault  of  hell  — 
To  seek,  who  would  not  quickly  fly  ? 

What  realms  would  not  be  crossed  — 
Urged  by  the  lamentable  cry, 

"  A  soul,  a  soul,  is  lost  !  " 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  85 


THE  ANCHOR. 

Is  Hope  "  an  anchor  of  the  soul, 

Secure  and  steadfast,"  holy  Paul  ? 
Then  why,  where  towering  breakers  roll, 

Is  not  such  anchor  cast  by  all  ? 
Exposed  to  Time's  disastrous  gales, 

That  drive  hirn  o'er  a  treacherous  tide, 
When  motive  for  exertion  fails 

How  may  the  Sailor  safely  ride  ? 

Where  on  the  waste  of  waves,  a  speck, 

His  lazy  vessel  rides  below, 
0  God  !  Thou  see'st  him  pace  the  deck, 

In  nightly  watch,  alone,  with  woe ; 
And  busy  Conscience  acts  its  part, 

And  keen  Remorse  awakens  wrong, 
And  coward  Fear  unmans  the  heart, 

Where  guilty  recollections  throng. 

The  Church  her  anchor,  on  that  sea, 
Keeps  all  a-peak  before  the  ship, 

Nor  sails  without,  though  sometimes  she, 
Surprised,  doth  cable  cut  or  slip  ; 


86  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

But  he,  untaught,  is  left  to  brave 
Those  stormy  terrors  as  he  may,  — 

Where  Hope  lights  not  the  surging  wave 
On  which  he  drifts  and  waits  for  day. 

Thank  God !  at  length  a  gallant  bark, 

The  Ship  of  Heaven,  looms  up  in  view ; 
She  flies,  as  did  the  saving  Ark, 

Sin's  ruined  world,  to  seek  a  new 
From  stem  to  stern  she  's  fully  manned  — 

From  courses  to  her  royals,  trim  ; 
Her  distant  port,  ImmanuePs  land  ; 

Her  cargo,  souls  redeemed  by  Him. 

How  true,  by  Bethlehem's  sacred  Star, 

She  steers  her  course,  and  hastes  along ! 
And  hark  !  low  winds,  that  sweep  afar 

The  rippling  waters,  bring  her  song  : 
u  Salvation  to  the  Sailor  now  ! 

There 's  safety  where  the  breakers  roll ; 
For,  ready  swung,  at  stern  and  bow, 

Is  Hope,  the  Anchor  of  the  Soul ! " 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  87 


EVERY  THING  IS  SERIOUS  ABOUT  US. 

God  is  serious,  while  from  us 

He  withholdeth  righteous  doom ; 
Christ  is  serious,  who  the  curse 

Took  upon  Him  in  our  room. 
Holy  Spirit !  serious  Thou 

Art  in  thy  continued  strife 
With  the  rebel,  loth  to  bow  — 

With  the  dead  that  hateth  life. 

Serious  are  the  Scriptures  to  us, 

Showing  up  the  depths  of  sin ; 
Showing  grace  that  can  renew  us, 

Grace  that  shines  those  depths  within. 
Serious  the  baptismal  rite, 

Serious  are  the  bread  and  wine ; 
Wash  me,  Lord,  and  make  me  white ! 

Feast  my  soul  on  food  divine. 

Serious  is  the  work  before  me  — 

Such  a  heart  as  mine  to  heal : 
Apathy,  that  often  o'er  me 

Comes  —  rebellion  when  I  feel. 


88  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Serious  is  it  men  to  warn, 

Some  to  counsel,  some  to  cheer, 

And  to  bear  unholy  scorn, 

And  to  teach  while  few  may  hear. 
• 

Serious  to  rejoice  aright, 

Or,  submissive,  kiss  the  rod  ; 
And  to  walk  approved  in  sight 

Of  myself,  and  man,  and  God. 
Serious,  science'  hill  to  climb, 

And  to  borrow  fancy's  wings ; 
Serious  are  the  things  of  Time, 

Serious  are  Eternal  things. 

Serious  is  the  wide  creation  — 

All  above,  about,  below ; 
Heaven,  in  songs  of  sweet  salvation  — 

Hell,  in  wails  of  bitter  woe. 
How  can  I  alone  be  gay  ? 

Empty,  airy,  as  the  chaff? 
Worlds  are  waiting,  Lord,  thy  Day ; 

Is  it  now  a  time  to  laugh  ? 

Rather  will  I  gird  my  soul 
Strongly  to  the  patient  race  ; 

And,  though  feeble,  to  the  goal, 
Set,  for  aye,  unflinching  face. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  89 

Serious  may  the  conflict  be  ; 

Hard  to  vanquish  every  wile  ; 
Won  —  I  shall  the  temple  see, 

Whose  resplendence  is  Thy  smile. 


DEATH'S  CHANGES. 

Death's  changes,  Time  and  Place  declare ;  - 

Know'st  thou  exempted  spot, 
Has  mortal  ever  journeyed  where 

The  Foe  has  journeyed  not  ? 
To  lordly  hall  or  kingly  tower, 

Or  peasant's  lowly  cot  ? 

O  no  !  't  is  not  the  dwelling  place 

Where  loving  ones  abide  : 
Amid  its  cheerful  haunts  I  trace 

Death  walking  in  his  pride, — 
The  old  man's  olive  plant  to  kill, 

That  grew  up  at  his  side. 

Nor  is  it  in  that  busy  town  : 

Each  year  inroads  I  find  — 
And  families  of  old  renown 

Are  scattered  to  the  wind. 
Death  breaks  them  up ;  —  of  ancient  friends, 

Who  now  are  left  behind  ? 


90  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


Nor  is  it  in  the  market  —  thou 
Whose  sands  are  at  the  last;, 

Seest  there,  a  crowd,  as  eager  now 
As  crowds  in  ages  past ; 

And  yet  new  voices  reach  thine  ear, 
New  looks  are  on  thee  cast. 

And  name  not  thou  the  church  to  me, 
As  place  unknown  to  change  — 

The  aspect  of  the  flock,  I  see, 
Each  Sabbath  waxes  strange : 

Continually,  Death  manifests 
He  here  has  ample  range. 

Nor  mayst  thou  point  to  yonder  lands  : 
Their  former  masters  sleep 

In  their  old  orchards  —  other  hands 
The  broad  possessions  keep ; 

And  these,  in  time,  shall  pass  away, 
And  others  sow  and  reap. 

Death's  changes  are  seen  everywhere  : 

Look  on  the  coronet, 
And  look  on  beggary,  and  there 

Thou  seest  his  finger  yet. 
And  who  that  ponders  as  he  goes, 

Such  changes  may  forget  ? 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  91 

Mayst  thou,  young  man,  of  healthful  face  V 

Or  think'st  thou  he  will  spare 
To  bow  thy  form  of  perfect  grace, 

Nor  write  his  victory  there  ? 
Thy  frame  's  well  knit,  but  wrestler  Death 

The  victor's  leaf  shall  wear. 

Mayst  tJiou,  O  sweetly  witching  girl ! 

"Whose  step  is  like  the  roe  ? 
Think'st  thou,  while  in  the  giddy  whirl, 

It  will  be  always  so  ? 
A  change  will  Death  bring  over  thee, 

Fair  flower  !  and  lay  thee  low. 

Sweet  cherub  babe !  from  yon  bright  world 

Sent  down  to  gladden  this  — 
Within  thy  mother's  fond  arms  curled, 

WTio  prints  on  thee  the  kiss  — 
She  knows  not,  pointed  is  the  dart 

To  thee,  that  cannot  miss. 

Death's  changes  everywhere  are  felt : 

The  Sea's  wide  field  of  blue, 
The  Earth,  and  Heaven's  starry  belt, 

Shall  fade  and  perish  too. 
Be  He,  that  hour,  my  changeless  Stay, 

Who  maketh  all  things  new  ! 


POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


A  STORY  OF  BROOKLINE. 

FOR   MY  LITTLE    BOY. 

Two  swallows  paired  one  vernal  day, 
And  thought  to  build  —  the  month  was  May. 
.Beneath  a  porch  with  jasmine  bound 
A  sweet  and  quiet  place  they  found, 
Just  where  a  pillar  held  the  roof 
From  eyes  and  fingers  danger-proof, 
On  premises,  well  known  as  his 
Who  knows  what  open  kindness  is, 
"Where  I  have  passed  some  pleasant  time 
Too  happy  to  be  told  in  rhyme, 
Where  sweet  Contentment  gaily  laughs 
And  Comfort  dwells  at  neighbor  Crafts. 
And  so  they  laid  the  moss  and  thorn, 
And  hair,  and  wool  —  or  plucked  or  shorn, 
The  spoils  of  hedge  and  shrub  and  bough, 
As  God  the  Builder  taught  them  how. 
Their  toil  went  well  —  for  they  agreed ; 
'T  was  finished  to  their  simple  need : 
With  joy  they  hastened  to  possess 
The  home  their  little  loves  should  bless. 

But  how  shall  I  the  tale  pursue  ? 
How  end  it  gladly,  and  be  true  ? 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  93 

For  your  instruction,  Boy  !  I  must  — 
To  gain  possession  as  the  first 
These  foolish  swallows  chose  to  fight : 
One  would  be  lord  by  force,  not  right, 
And  occupy,  as  if  his  own, 
The  nest  not  made  for  one  alone. 
They  worried,  tugged,  and  battled  sore 
To  gain  possession  of  its  floor ; 
They  fought  as  if  by  sin  possest, 
Till,  loosened  from  its  perch,  the  nest 
Fell  in  disorder  to  the  ground. 
Listen !  my  moral  is  profound  : 
*Tis  not  enough  to  build  in  quiet  — 
Enter  in  peace,  eschewing  riot  1 


TO  A  BOODH; 

Sent  to  me  by  Rev.  Dr.  Judson,  Missionary  in  Burmah. 

The  idols  of  the  Orient  bow, 

Abashed,  to  a  Superior  Power ; 
And  weeds  offend  the  pilgrim  now, 

Where  flaunted  priest,  and  glittered  tower. 

They  come  !  they  come  !  from  silent  shrines 
Of  Gunga,  and  the  blue  Salwin  ; 

Though  dumb  —  to  us  convincing  signs 
Of  rising  Truth  and  falling  Sin. 


94  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

They  come  !  —  those  conquered  gods  —  to  stir 
Our  lagging  faith,  and  show  that  He 

Whose  is  the  Church  will  give  to  her 
The  world  beyond  the  Indian  Sea. 

And  Boodh  !  —  that,  from  the  sculptor's  hand, 
In  ugliness,  dropped  years  ago  — 

Sent  me  by  one  of  that  true  band 

Whose  future  crowns  are  starred  below — 

Though  thy  recumbent  chiselled  limbs 
Are  spotted  now,  methinks,  with  blood, 

Poured  ages  since,  with  hellish  hymns 
Of  praise  to  Guilt's  incarnate  god  ; 

Yet  hail  I  here  thy  presence  !  not 
Exultingly,  o'er  senseless  stone ; 

Or  haughtily,  because  my  lot 
Is  cast  where  better  things  are  known  : 

But  gladly  —  for  thou  telle  st  me 

The  fiend  of  darkness  spreads  his  wings ; 

And  Earth,  enlightened,  hastes  to  be 
Subjected  to  the  King  of  kings. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  95 


SACRAMENTAL  HYMN. 

"  And  he  said,  unto  him,  Lord,  thou  knowest  all  things ;  thou  know- 
est  that  I  love  thee."— John  xxi.  17. 

One  speaks  for  all !  —  when  Peter  thus 
Speaks  for  himself,  he  speaks  for  us  ; 
And  we,  who  love  the  Saviour's  name, 
Love  him  with  Peter's  earnest  flame. 

Come,  ye  who  such  appeal  can  make, 
Who  love  Him  for  his  own  dear  sake  ; 
Come  !  in  His  arms  of  grace  recline, 
And  sup  with  Him  on  bread  and  wine. 

A  royal  table  !  royal  cheer  ! 
Haste,  hungry,  thirsty,  fainting,  here  ! 
Sweet  Mercy  o'er  the  feast  folds  wings, 
And  with  us  sits  the  King  of  kings. 

Emblem  of  Heaven's  fruition  this  ! 
And  hark  !  a  voice  comes  on  our  bliss, 
To  each,  to  all—  "  Say,  lov'st  thou  me  ?  " 
Thou  knowest,  Lord,  that  we  love  thee  ! 


96  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


HONEY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

u  And  when  the  people  had  come  into  the  wood,  behold,  the  honey 
dropped.  "Wherefore,  he  put  forth  the  end  of  the  rod  that  was  in  his 
hand,  and  dipped  it  in  a  honey-comb,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth, 
and  his  eyes  were  enlightened." — 1  Samuel  xiv.  26,  27. 

Spent  with  the  toil  of  wasting  war, 
His  hosts,  with  him,  compelled  to  fast, 

The  longing  Chief  of  Israel  saw 
Where  nature  furnished  wild  repast 

The  aged  terebinth  had  shed 
Its  pure  and  luscious  treasure  round ; 

And  the  rich  feast  lay  duly  spread, 
Free  as  the  winds,  along  the  ground. 

For  there,  upon  the  tangled  grass, 
Dropt  the  sweet  burden  of  that  hive ; 

Yet,  till  the  dial's  shade  should  pass, 
No  Hebrew  might  partake  and  live. 

The  monarch's  son,  the  empire's  heir, 
The  leader  in  the  conflict's  van ; 

The  victor  —  say,  what  was  he  there  ? 
A  weary,  worn,  and  famished  man ! 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  97 

He  took  and  ate  —  no  more  oppressed, 
From  eyes,  enlightened,  flashed  his  joy ! 

O  fainting  soul !  be  thou  as  blest 
With  drops  of  Grace,  that  never  cloy. 

And  praise  Hhn  who  leads  sons  of  care, 

Pursued  by  sin  and  sore  distress, 
From  famine  and  from  flight,  to  where 

There 's  Honey  in  the  Wilderness. 


THE  DISCOVERER 

We  know  not  who  —  on  Pity's  tower 
A  watchman  —  took  the  world's  survey, 

And  saw  it  captive  to  the  power 
That  holds  exterminating  sway ; 

Who,  reasoning  from  effect  to  cause, 
Sought,  link  by  link,  to  trace  the  ill ; 

And,  led  by  Truth's  unerring  laws, 
Was  brought  to  the  devouring  Still  ; 

And  learned,  't  was  not  the  Cup's  Abuse, 
That  thus  a  gracious  purpose  crost, 

But  only  by  the  Moderate  Use 
The  noble  world  of  God  was  lost 

7 


98  POETRY   OP   LfFE. 

We  know  him  not :  suffice  to  know 
That  he  has  lived  —  yet  lives,  nor  dies 

While  Gratitude  is  named  below  — 

While  Virtue  's  throned  above  the  skies. 

We  know  him  not  —  and  yet  his  name 
Among  the  Best  and  Greatest  rings. 

And  what  are  all  earth's  chiefs  of  fame 
To  him  ?  or  what  her  jewelled  kings? 

What  shall  we  give  him  ?  —  he  's  a  shade, 
Or  mortal  —  gold  and  gems  are  dust ; 

Let  loftier  recompense  be  paid 

To  Him  —  of  all  Discoverers,  first ! 

To  form  his  chaplet  who 's  unknown, 

We  '11  raise  each  drooping  flower  we  know ; 

We  '11  place  Him  on  the  highest  throne, 
By  lifting  up  the  child  of  woe. 

His  principle  shall  be  applied 

To  every  continent  and  sea, 
Till  every  tear  of  grief  is  dried, 

And  this  fair  world  again  is  free. 


POETRY    OF   LIFE.  99 


FELLOWSHIP. 

"  The  language  of  Canaan  is  everywhere  the  same." 

Letters  from  Abroad. 

It  is  the  same  !  wherever  men 

That  love  the  Saviour  meet, 
Heart  leaps  to  kindred  heart,  and  then 

The  interchange  is  sweet ; 
Each  holds  with  each  communion  high, 

The  sacred  kindlings  run, 
And  with  imperishable  tie 

Their  souls  are  knit  in  one. 

One  language  speak  the  saints  below ; 

They  speak  but  one  above : 
How  readily  affections  flow, 

When  that  which  prompts  is  Love ! 
For  Love 's  the  same  in  every  zone 

Where  minds,  thus  taught,  adore : 
In  our  America  't  is  known, 

And  on  the  English  shore. 

They  speak  this  common  language  well, 

Who  own  a  different  speech ; 
This  fellowship  has  signs  that  tell 

What  this  alone  doth  teach ; 


100  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

And  he  that 's  skilled  in  Canaan's  tongue, 

Where'er  his  foot  has  trod, 
Has  found  with  his,  some  accent  strung 

In  unison  to  God. 

The  toiler  in  his  city  walls, 

The  journeyer  on  the  sea, 
The  dweller  in  imperial  halls, 

And  he  of  low  degree,  — 
Man,  in  his  northern  world  of  snow, 

Who  herds  from  man  apart  — 
In  India's  vales,  where  soft  winds  blow, 

In  Afric's  mighty  heart,  — - 

The  foreigner  and  he  at  home, 

The  stranger  by  the  way, 
Whoe'er  has  enterprise  to  roam, 

Or  who  content  to  stay  — 
If  of  this  holy  brotherhood, 

Are  all  in  Love  the  same  ; 
And  each  one  in  the  Son  of  God 

Has  part,  that  wears  his  Name. 

Where'er  thou  stray'st  or  tarriest,  know ! 

If  cast  with  Him  thy  lot, 
Thou  mayst  not  in  life's  passage  go 

Where  kindred  mind  is  not ;  — 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  101 

Where  dwelletli  not  some  follower  still, 

His  witness  in  each  elinie  — 
Men  keeping  covenant,  whom  He  will 

Keep  when  sealed  up  is  Time. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 


Where  good  and  ill  are  strangely  mixed 

To  Pilgrhn,  true,  is  given, 
Not  rapture,  but  the  habit  fixed 

Of  fellowship  with  Heaven. 

Beleaguered  by  the  fiends  of  night, 
Behind,  beneath,  and  o'er  him,  — 

His  eye  is  fastened  on  the  light 
That  ever  burns  before  him. 

And  if  that  Star  at  times  is  dim, 
And  fades  his  bright  Elysian, 

He  knows  the  error  is  with  him, 
And  prays  for  perfect  vision. 

Nor  idly  at  the  mountain's  foot 

Repeats  a  helpless  story, 
But  strong  exertions  forth  will  putv 

To  reach  the  upper  glory. 


102  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Accursed  devils !  — jeer  and  jibe  — 

Ye  cannot  hhn  appal ; 
Roar,  lions !  —  He,  of  Judali's  tribe, 

Shall  rend  the  lion's  caul. 

Adown  the  ghostly  vale  of  tears, 
Where  souls  are  lost  and  won, 

He  sighs,  and  weeps,  and  stops  his  ears, 
And  meekly  journeys  on. 

Whate'er  the  road,  or  wind,  or  weather, 
Fierce  sun,  or  freezing  blast, 

He  travels  on,  nor  cares  a  feather, 
So  resteth  he  at  last. 

And  thus  he  goes,  in  face  of  foes, 
Through  heats,  and  fogs,  and  rains, 

Till,  where  the  spice-gale  softly  blows 
O'er  Beulah's  pleasant  plains, 

Is  rolling  at  the  pilgrim's  feet 

The  cold  and  rapid  river, 
Beyond  whose  banks  the  sunbeams  beat, 

That  warm  and  shine  for  ever. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  103 


THE  GARMENT  WITH  FRINGES. 

"  And  the  Lord  spake  unto  Moses,  saying :  Speak  unto  the  children 
of  Israel,  and  bid  them  that  they  make  them  fringes  in  the  borders  of 
their  garments  throughout  their  generations,  and  that  they  put  upon 
the  fringe  of  the  borders  a  ribbon  of  blue  :  And  it  shall  be  unto  you 
for  a  fringe,  that  ye  may  look  upon  it,  and  remember  all  the  com- 
mandments of  the  Lord,  and  do  them." — Nujibees  xv.  37 — 39. 

Thus  said  Jehovah :  "  Make  to  you 
Fringes  around  your  garments'  hem ; 

A  ribbon  of  appointed  blue, 
In  order,  shall  ye  put  on  them ;  — 

Which,  while  they  meet  the  constant  eye, 
Shall  bring  to  mind  my  perfect  Law, 

That  no  deceiving  angel,  nigh, 

May  from  its  claims  your  duty  draw." 

Our  vision,  Lord,  is  slow  to  see 

What  blest  analogy  between 
A  ritual  and  a  robe  may  be, 

Or  what  the  silken  fringe  may  mean. 

Yet,  if  to  men  a  graceful  book 

Might  be  the  tunic's  flowing  fold, 
On  which  in  reverence  eyes  should  look,  — 

In  which  the  heart  could  Truth  behold,  — 


104  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


If  Thou  didst  shadow  precepts  out 

In  garments,  starred  with  gold  and  gem, 

And  write  thy  glorious  Law  about 

The  dress  of  blue  and  crimson  hem,  — 

Suffice  it  —  such  was  Wisdom's  will ; 

And  this  is  all  we  need  below  — 
For  who  shall  best  Thy  word  fulfil, 

Shall  best  its  sweet  instructions  know. 


LOSS  OF  THE  STEAMER  ATLANTIC. 

I  mourned  the  bright  visions  affection  had  cherished, 
And  sorrowed  that  storms  should  envelope  their  sky 

Whose  sun  has  descended,  whose  hopes  have  all  per- 
ished, 
And  wept  their  departure,  none  questioned  me  why. 

For  every  one  felt  that  in  glorious  manhood, 
When  life  is  alluring,  't  is  dreadful  to  die. 

I  thought  of  the  tempest  and  dark-rolling  billows 
That  howled  to  each  other,  impatient  for  prey ; 

Of  the  night  that  to  agony  yielded  no  pillows, 

Of  the  watchings  and  woes  of  that  measureless  day. 

To  leave  with  brief  shriving !  —  to  go  at  short  warning ! 
And  who  will  the  widow  and  fatherless  stay  ? 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  105 

I  looked  at  those  women  in  feebleness  bending 
Beneath  the  dread  terrors,  too  mighty  to  bear ; 

At  the  crew  whose  stout  bosoms  the  peril  was  rending ; 
At  him  who  had  soothed  his  own  anguish  in  prayer, 

And,  true  to  the  last,  was  for  others  entreating ; 
O  God !  can  the  Pagan  such  faithfulness  spare  ! 

I  pictured  the  moment  when,  parting  and  breaking, 
The  vessel  no  longer  could  bear  up  or  save ; 

And  I  heard  the  wild  shriek  of  the  heart  that  was 
taking 
Its  farewell  of  earth  for  a  home  in  the  wave ;  — 

While  looked  out  in  pity  no  star  of  the  morning 
To  light  the  sad  traveller  down  to  his  grave. 

And  I  turned  for  relief  to  the  same  gracious  Power, 
To  whom,  in  perplexity,  mortals  must  go  ; 

And  I  saw  't  is  the  moment  when  gloomiest  lower 
The  clouds,  that  upon  them  He  fixes  the  bow. 

And  Faith  solved  the  mystery,  and  bade  me  adore  Him 
Who  lavishes  mercy  when  dealing  the  blow. 


106  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


RETURN  OF  A  PASTOR  FROM  EUROPE. 

God  of  Zion,  whence  her  banners 

Stream  beyond  the  outer  walls, 
From  whose  turrets  Zion's  Watchman 

In  the  name  of  Jesus  calls  — 
Listen  !  listen  !  Praise  is  waiting 

From  a  thousand  hearts  for  Thee  ; 
Vows,  that  men  in  sadness  offered, 

Now  with  joy  performed  shall  be. 

God  of  Mercy,  o'er  the  ocean's 

Beautiful,  bewildering  track, 
Thou  didst  take  Thy  servant  from  us, 

Thou  hast  safely  led  him  back. 
God  Omniscient,  when  between  us 

Rocked  the  seas  of  half  a  globe, 
Thou  didst  o'er  him  and  around  us 

Cast  thy  Presence  like  a  robe. 

God  Almighty,  gates  of  nations 

Thou  hast  opened  to  his  feet, 
Where  Truth  perishes,  and  Falsehood 

Lives  and  sits  in  Satan's  seat. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  107 

God  of  Wisdom,  from  thy  lessons, 
Scattered  o'er  the  old  world's  book, 

Thou  hast  taught  him,  as  thy  Spirit 
Teaches  those  who  humbly  look. 

God  of  Worship,  while  together 

Pastor  and  the  people  kneel 
At  their  own  accustomed  altar,  — 

Thine  accustomed  grace  reveal. 
Mercy-laden  —  asking  mercy, 

Pressed  by  Love  —  imploring  more, 
O  exhaustless,  constant  Giver ! 

Thee,  the  Giver,  we  adore. 


KEY.  W.  T.  ARMSTRONG,  D.D.* 

Like  dreams  when  the  Good  pass  away, 
And  the  soul  to  its  God  doth  return, 

And  man  wakes  from  darkness  to  Day, 
Is  it  right  for  the  Christian  to  mourn  ? 

Shall  we  weep  when  the  captive  who  sighed, 
And  drooped  in  his  dungeon  alone, 

Clasps  Liberty,  decked  for  his  bride, 
And  leaps  to  the  light  of  the  throne  ? 

•  Lost  in  the  Steamer  Atlantic. 


108  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Shall  we  weep  that  the  pilgrim  is  sped 
From  Beulah,  where,  singing,  he  dwelt ; 

Through  Jordan  so  happily  led  — 
The  chill  of  the  river  unfelt  ? 

Not  long  on  its  margin  to  wait  — 
The  goal  in  a  moment  to  win  — 

At  once  at  the  beautiful  Gate 
To  enter  with  ecstasy  in ! 

Yes,  we  mourn,  and  't  is  fitting  such  woe 
Every  eye  with  emotion  should  dim ; 

Every  bosom,  a  fountain,  o'erflow, 
But  oh !  not  with  sorrows  for  Mm  ! 

No  tears  —  though  affection  her  chain 
Of  roses  about  him  had  twined  ; 

And  the  heart  it  were  rubies  to  gain, 
Was  bright  with  the  blaze  of  the  Mind. 

No  tears  —  though  his  labors  were  such 

As  to  Jesus  will  revenue  bring ; 
Though  he  deemed  their  full  burden  not  much, 

Could  he  joy  in  the  joys  of  his  King. 

No  tears  —  though  at  midday  he  went, 
In  the  vigor  and  strength  of  his  prime, 

Ere  his  frame  had  decrepitude  bent, 
Or  his  spirit  was  weary  of  time. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  109 


♦ 


No  tears  —  though  he  yielded  his  life 
To  the  foe  in  a  terrible  form, 

When  he  passed  in  the  elements'  strife, 
And  soared  on  the  wings  of  the  storm. 

No  tears  for  a  chief  of  the  Cross, 
Save  those  of  our  love  and  respect ; 

But  grief  for  Idolatry's  loss  — 

The  Bread  for  the  Perishing  wrecked  ! 

And  tears  for  our  trial  to-day, 

And  for  Zion,  of  comeliness  shorn  ;  — 
Like  dreams  when  the  Good  pass  away, 

It  is  right  for  the  Christian  to  mourn. 


FAITHFUL  TO  HIS  CONSTITUENTS. 

He  journeyed  on,  and  baited  at  each  house, 
Where  landlords  hang  out  sign  to  entertain 
Both  "  man  and  beast"     And  he  was  entertained 
With  certain  glasses  of  old  brandy,  or 
Of  Hollands,  or  the  best  New-England  Rum, 
As  suited  taste ;  nor  boggled  he,  nor  seemed 
Squeamish,  or  hard  to  be  well  satisfied. 
And  thus  did  he,  or  if  the  weather  showed 
Or  cold  or  moderate,  or  rain  or  shine, 


110  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

'T  was  all  the  same  —  his  quenchless  thirst  held  good ; 
And  by  the  time  we  reached  the  bustling  town, 
Where  is  the  seat  of  government,  to  which 
The  gathered  wisdom  of  the  State  convenes, 
Yearly,  to  make  or  mend  the  laws  —  I  found 
My  friend,  the  Representative,  was  drunk. 

I  marvelled  somewhat  at  this  riddle,  till, 
Waiting  a  sober  hour,  I  questioned  him, 
And  he  did  thus  reply,  all  unabashed : 
"  My  good  constituents  hate  the  new  plans  — 
And  vile  plans  are  they !  —  'bout  the  Temperance 

cause ; 
And  they  elected  me,  for  well  they  knew 
I  should  oppose  such  notions,  and  should  thwart 
Endeavors  to  put  down  all  licenses  — 
Which  curst  endeavors  are  against  His  will 
Who  made  all  things,  and  who  has  said  that  all 
The  creatures  —  surely  the  "  good  creature  "  too  — 
Are  very  good.     Faithful  those  friends  to  me, 
And  I  must  drink  - —  I  love  it  —  for  I  deem 
A  man  unfit  to  sit  in  yon  brave  State  House, 
And  represent  the  friends  that  stayed  at  none 
Expedient,  or  good  or  bad,  to  place  him  there  — 
Who  will  not,  on  occasion,  evenjwhere 
Be  faithful  to  his  tried  constituents. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  Ill 


COME  TO  THE  AGED  DEAD. 

Come  to  the  aged  Dead,  and  see 

How  on  that  tranquil  brow 
And  placid  cheek,  the  impress  lies 

Of  glorious  Childhood  now ! 

*T  is  something,  not  of  noon's  full  beam, 
Nor  sunset's  chastened  ray  — 

But  like  sweet  morning,  ere  it  melts 
Into  the  gush  of  day. 

We  saw  him  in  his  lusty  prime : 

'T  was  sadly  ours  to  scan 
The  lineaments  that  strongly  spelt 


How  stern  that  brow  of  dark-winged  years  I 

How  eloquent  that  cheek, 
And  eye,  chastised,  which  ever  seemed 

Of  hopes,  all  quenched,  to  speak  ! 

We  saw  him  in  the  wasting  hour, 
When  strife  its  work  had  done  ; 

And  sharp  disease  and  eager  pain 
Their  victory  had  won. 


112  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Their  victory,  in  which  themselves 
Found  unretrieved  defeat ; 

O  Death  !  thou  art  a  victim,  slain 
Beneath  thy  victim's  feet. 

Come  to  the  Dead  —  how  changed  is  he ! 

The  same  —  thou  need'st  not  fear ; 
Sickness  and  grief  and  years  are  gone, 

'T  is  life's  first  freshness  here. 

The  deep-writ  characters  of  time, 

The  weary  words  of  age, 
We  read  not  now ;  we  fondly  dwell 

On  Infancy's  sweet  page. 

A  blessed  thought !  that  love's  last  look 

Is  pictured  on  the  heart 
So  faithfully,  that  with  it  Love 

Would  willingly  not  part. 

And,  Death !  a  mighty  power  is  thine 

To  blot  out  present  pain, 
And  with  thy  cold  and  gentle  touch 

To  bring  the  past  again. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  113 


KEDRON. 

The  day  hath  fled.  On  Salem's  tower 
The  lovely  moon-beam  calmly  shines ; 

Hushed  is  the  song  in  court  and  bower, 
And  worshipless  the  holy  shrines. 

'T  is  night.     Jerusalem  is  still, 

And  lost  in  sleep  are  bond  and  free  ; 

Her  streets,  her  vale,  the  holy  hill 
Repose  in  sweet  tranquillity. 

Repose  they  all  ?  —  have  none  from  sleep 
Aroused,  to  sigh  o'er  Zion's  blight  ? 

Retire  not  some,  alone,  to  weep  ? 
Wake  not  a  faithful  few  this  night  ? 

Yes  !  and  along  the  silent  brow 

Of  his  beloved  Olivet, 
The  suffering  Saviour  wanders  now, 

And  there  have  his  disciples  met. 

How  sad  the  greeting  !  —  who  may  tell 
The  tenderness  which  in  that  look 

Burst  forth,  when  Jesus  wept  farewell 
To  those  he  loved  by  Kedron's  brook  ! 


114  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


A  TOKEN  FROM  WASHINGTON. 

Thou  hast  a  treasure  in  thy  thought, 

O  man  of  many  years  ! 
It  stirs  a  secret  spring,  whence  flow 

Alternate  smiles  and  tears. 

For  thus  he  spoke :  "  In  Peril's  day, 

When  fields  were  nobly  won, 
I  with  the  foremost  stood,  who  stood 

With  glorious  Washington. 

When  ceased  the  tide,  that  deeply  dyed 

The  grass  of  Monmouth  red, 
And  ceased  the  hailing  balls,  I  knelt, 

All  bleeding,  with  the  dead. 

Alone  f    O  no !  for  still  I  waved 

In  triumph  to  the  sky, 
My  country's  stars  and  stripes  ;  my  oath 

Was  thus  to  do,  or  die. 

He  thanked  me  —  yes !  where  flashed  the  files 

Of  Freedom's  stern-lipped  men. 
My  hair  is  white  —  that  token  warms 

My  heart  this  hour  as  then." 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  115 

I  heard  and  blushed  ;  for  in  the  ranks, 

Where,  to  avenge  His  loss, 
The  soldiers  of  Tmmanuel  march 

To  battle  for  the  Cross, 

I,  like  a  coward,  often  lose 

My  courage  for  the  fight ; 
And  Faith  forgets  their  starry  prize 

Who  keep  the  good  sword  bright. 

And  yet  the  crown  for  him  who  grasps 

His  colors,  on  that  field, 
Nor  flies,  though  others  round  him  fly, 

Nor  yields,  though  legions  yield,  — 

The  token  for  the  heart,  that  keeps 

Its  citadel  from  sins, 
The  "  Good  and  Faithful"  to  the  man 

That  perseveres  and  wins,  — 

The  world,  drawn  up  in  flaming  files, 

Shall  see  when  Christ  appears. 
Hast  thou  not,  soul !  a  thought  to  wake 

Alternate  smiles  and  tears  ? 


116  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


WATCH  NIGHT. 

"Three  Watch  Nights  are  mentioned  in  the  Bible  —  the  Egyptian 
Watch  Night,  when  the  Israelites  were  delivered ;  our  Lord's  Watch 
Night  in  the  garden ;  Paul  and  Silas's  Watch  Night." 

Watch  Night,  of  old, 

God's  chosen,  bold, 
Held,  when  their  hosts  he  came, 

From  scourge  and  guile, 

And  lands  of  Nile, 
To  lead,  in  cloud  and  flame. 

His  Watch  Night,  sad, 

When  Satan  had 
One  boastful  hour  the  throne  — 

Immanuel  kept, 

While  angels  wept 
To  see  their  Lord  alone. 

'T  was  Watch  Night,  when 

Philippi's  den 
Held  servants  of  the  sky  ; 

And  bolts  and  chain, 

Like  threads,  in  twain, 
Snapt  at  the  earthquake's  cry. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  117 

Up  !  Watch  Xight,  now, 

Hold  we,  who  bow 
In  joy  and  trembling  here, 

Give  louder  song ! 

Though  wait  we  long, 
The  Master  will  appear. 

Up  !  Watch  Xight  keep, 

Ye  that  in  sleep 
Have  lain  —  your  torches  trim  ! 

AVho  of  his  train, 

"When  Christ  again 
Appeai-s,  will  wake  for  Him  t 

Up  !  when  burns  noon, 

Or  when  the  moon 
Ascends  her  midnight  way  — 

He  cometh !  see 

That,  waiting,  ye 
May  greet  the  Bridegroom's  Day. 

Suck,  when  their  shrouds 

Men  leave,  and  clouds 
Reveal  the  throne  to  view, 

Shall  win  —  toils  past  — 

Bright  crowns  at  last ; 
Soul !  is  there  crown  for  you  f 


118  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


TO  A  MISSIONARY. 

When  Jesus  led  his  faithful  few 

To  Bethany,  where  they,  alone,  — 
The  favorites  of  their  Lord,  —  should  view 

His  transit  to  his  upper  throne,  — 
Why  stood  the  cloudy  chariot  still, 

Upborne  by  servants  of  the  sky  ? 
Why  halted  they  who  do  God's  will, 

When  the  deep  thunder  bids  to  fly  ? 

'T  was  for  the  promise  left  to  those, 

His  followers  in  sorrow  here, 
To  solace  them  his  mercy  chose, 

To  dry  the  pilgrim's  starting  tear. 
How  tender  were  the  words,  whose  oil 

Soothed  each  disciple's  anxious  heart, 
Confirmed  the  strong,  prepared  for  toil 

The  faint,  to  act  the  martyr's  part ! 

"  Go,  preach  my  word ;  bid  Gentile  lands 
Shake  off  their  night ;  seek  those  astray ; 
Unloose  the  captive's  slavish  bands, 
Release  from  mental  death  its  prey ; 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  11! 

Lo,  I  am  with  you  to  the  end !  " 

He  spake,  and  on  the  whirlwind's  wing, 

The  Son  of  Man,  the  sinner's  Friend, 
Of  Earth,  restored,  went  up,  the  King. 

Go,  Missionary !  —  meekly  bear 

Thy  cross,  thy  shame,  't  will  be  thy  crown  ; 
Thy  burden  —  light  beyond  compare, 

To  that  which  crushed  the  Godhead  down. 
The  mountains,  desert,  and  the  sea, 

That,  painfully,  thou  wanderest  o'er, 
Have  dangers  —  vanquished,  yet  to  thee, 

For  these  thy  Master  trod  before. 

Thou  goest  to  perils ;  yes,  the  tomb, 

Ere  long,  will  claim  its  willing  prey  : 
Yet  courage  !     He  who  rent  its  gloom 

Poured  on  that  couch  eternal  day. 
Farewell !  although  these  eyes,  no  more, 

To  thee  the  heart's  warm  kindlings  wear, 
Yet,  sinless,  joined  on  yonder  shore, 

Immortal  Love  awaits  thee  there. 


120  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


INSTALLATION  HYMN. 

"  Go,  preach  my  Gospel,  and  proclaim 
Salvation  through  Immanuel's  Name  ! " 
How  shall  they  hear,  with  none  to  teach  ? 
What  messenger,  unsent,  may  preach  ? 

"  Yet,  preach  my  Gospel,  and  proclaim 
Salvation  through  Immanuel's  Name  ! 
The  world  shall  listen,  while  they  teach 
Who,  by  my  Spirit  sent,  shall  preach  !  • 

Thus  speaks,  from  age  to  age,  Thy  will ; 
Thy  servants  thus  Thy  word  fulfil ; 
From  age  to  age  the  word  's  the  same  : 
"  Salvation  through  Immanuel's  Name  ! " 

And  Earth  has  joy  unknown  to  Heaven, 
When  he,  to  whom  such  toil  is  given, 
Leads  to  the  Cross  an  heir  of  shame, 
To  see  him  crowned  in  Jesus'  Name  ! 

And  Earth  has  notes  from  her  sweet  lyres, 
Unknown  to  Gabriel's  loftier  wires, 
That  tell,  in  love,  and  bliss,  and  shame, 
"  Salvation  through  Immanuel's  Name  ! " 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  121 

Such  joy  to  this,  Thy  servant,  give  ! 
Bid  here  such  songs  of  praises  live  ! 
Let  Heaven  and  Earth  in  shouts  proclaim 
Salvation  through  Immanuers  Name  ! " 


FRAGMENT. 

The  shadowy  reign  of  Time  had  passed  away, 
Systems  had  fled,  and  suns  illumed  no  more. 
The  starry  gems  were  lost  in  radiant  day, 
The  last  shrill  trump  had  waked  the  distant  shore  ; 
Its  clang  had  ceased,  and  silence  was  in  heaven. 
I  saw  the  marshalled  cordon  of  the  sky, 
In  glittering  ranks  bestud  the  trackless  plain ; 
The  tomb's  pale  monarch  bound  in  chains  stood  by, 
The  prince  of  darkness  with  his  powers  was  nigh ; 
While  ransomed  myriads  swelled  the  countless  train. 
***** 

I  saw  the  scroll  *  *  * 

Endless  duration  never  can  unfold  ! 

I  saw  the  scroll — The  Life  of  Deity  was  there. 

Its  awful  signet  shall  remain  untold ; 

No  strains  of  heaven,  no  curse  in  hell,  may  dare, 

Eternity  !  thy  dreadful  years  declare. 


122  POETRY  OF  LIFE. 


THAT  AT  THE  NAME  OF  JESUS  EVERY 
KNEE  SHOULD  BOW. 

They  shall  bow,  they  shall  bow ;  yet  not  as  they  knelt, 
In  a  Presence  by  Pagans  unknown  and  unfelt ; 
They  shall  give  Him  the  worship  by  knowledge  re- 
fined— 
The  love  of  the  soul  with  the  light  of  the  mind. 

They  shall  bow,  they  shall  bow ;  yet  not,  to  their  loss, 
At  the  jewel  and  tinsel  and  wood  of  the  Cross  : 
Intense  is  his  rapture,  and  nearer  than  Rome, 
Who  finds  at  the  feet  of  the  Saviour  his  home. 

They  shall  bow,  they  shall  bow ;  not  with  Aaron  the 

Priest, 
In  temples  of  gold  with  the  viol  and  feast ; 
The  breastplate  is  dimmed  and  the  mitre  put  by 
Where  Jesus  in  hovels  hears  Magdalen's  sigh. 

They  shall  bow,  they  shall  bow,  who  as  foes  feel  His 

yoke, 
Where  the  shriek  of  their  torment  ascends  with  the 

smoke ; 
They  shall  bow,  they  shall  bow,  who  as  followers  own 
That  the  Lord  of  their  love  is  the  Kinjr  on  the  throne. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  123 

They  shall  bow  —  all  shall  bow ;  't  is  the  compact  He 

made ; 
'T  was  for  this  in  the  manger  and  tomb  He  was  laid ; 
The  fruit  of  his  travail  to  Him  shall  be  given,  — 
The  satisfied  Monarch  of  Earth,  Hell,  and  Heaven. 

They  shall  bow  —  we  shall  bow,  in  honor  or  shame ; 
Confessing  in  songs  or  in  sorrows  His  Name ; 
And  how,  where  His  universe  renders  the  knee, 
In  music  or  mourning,  my  brother,  shall  we  ? 


LIFT  UP  THE  CROSS. 

Lift  up  the  Cross,  when  in  thy  way 

Some  painful  duty  lies  undone; 
If  thou  art  His  who  bore  its  load, 

Thou  mayst  not  the  commandment  shun. 
Lift  up  the  Cross,  and  teach  the  world  — 

Which  still  professions  may  condemn  — 
Thy  burning  words  and  oaths  of  love 

Have  more  than  words  and  oaths  in  them. 

Lift  up  the  Cross,  if  low  in  dust 
Its  glories  by  the  foe  are  trailed ; 

Though  faint  and  faltering,  be  the  first 
To  lift  it  when  the  strong  have  failed. 


124  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Lift  up  the  Cross,  that  men  may  see, 
Though  all  forsake  in  peril's  hour, 

There  's  one  that 's  true,  and  only  he 
Is  so  who  knows  and  trusts  its  power. 

Lift  up  the  Cross,  in  outward  show 

Of  pure  religion,  felt  within, 
Or  tear  it  from  the  shrine,  if  so 

The  gilded  wood  ye  count  a  sin. 
Agreed  in  this  —  that  formal  sign, 

Where  heart  is  absent,  is  but  loss  ; 
Hosts  of  the  Lord  !  your  feuds  resign ;  — 

Against  the  mighty  lift  the  Cross. 

Lift  up  the  Cross,  my  weary  soul, 

That  o'er  the  task  has  lingered  long ; 
Thou  fearest  —  nay,  thou  shalt  not  die, 

For  those  who  touch  this  Ark  are  strong 
Lift  up  the  Cross,  and  lift  it  high ; 

Its  holy  peace  looks  gently  down : 
Hark,  to  the  call  to  win  or  die  ! 

Now  for  the  Cross  behold  the  Crown  ! 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  125 


WHAT  IS  THE  FINEST  SIGHT  ? 

"  Miss  Martineau  says,  that  she  was  told  by  the  captain  of  a  steamer 
which  plied  on  the  river  Niagara,  between  the  American  and  British 
shores,  that  the  finest  sight  in  the  world  was  the  leap  of  the  fugitive 
slave  to  the  land,  when  the  ship  neared  the  British  territory." — See 
Lord  Morpeth's  Speech  at  the  World's  Convention. 

"  What  is  the  finest  sight  ? 
America's  most  brave  ?  " 
I  ask,  where,  black  as  night, 
Niagara's  waters  rave. 

What  is  the  finest  sight 

On  placid  lake  or  shore  ? 
Answer  me,  tones  of  might 

That  from  Niagara  roar ! 

Not  where  the  cloudless  beam 

On  mimic  ocean  glows ; 
Not  where  thy  silver  stream, 

Utawas !  gently  flows  : 

Not  where  the  verdant  banks 
Hem  in  St.  Lawrence'  pride ; 

Not  where  the  forest  flanks 
Niagara's  sweeping  tide ; 


126  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Not  where  the  Cataract's  call 

Through  million  trumps  is  blown  ; 

Not  where  that  monarch  Fall 
Hath  rainbows  round  his  throne. 

God  sees  a  finer  sight 

Than  waterfall  or  flowers, 

When  to  yon  land  of  light 
A  slave  escapes  from  ours. 

When,  fearing,  crouching,  creeping, 
He  steals  his  onward  way  — 

At  night  in  terror  sleeping, 
And  scarce  alive  by  day ;  — 

Till,  leaping  from  the  deck, 

The  fugitive  at  last 
Is  safe,  where  scowl  and  beck 

And  whip  and  chain  are  past. 

God  stoops  to  see  that  sight, 
Fulfilling  Nature's  plan  — 

A  cheated  "  chattel"  write 
Himself,  a  lawful  man. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  127 


THE  MAGDALEN'S  HYMN. 

I  know  the  world  derides  my  claim 

To  healing  pity  and  protection ; 
I  know  that  to  the  child  of  shame, 

It  turns  no  look  of  kind  affection. 

Full  well  I  know  the  bitter  scoff 
That  greets  the  hapless  female  ever : 

The  cold  and  selfish  cast  her  off, 

To  soothe  her  and  reclaim  her,  never. 

And  some  that  give  the  ready  smile, 

Approving,  to  the  gay  deceiver, 
Abhor  her  who,  a  prey  to  guile, 

"Was  a  too  faithful,  fond  believer. 

Yet  there  is  Gilead  for  my  need, 

And  balm,  too,  for  this  bosom's  anguish ; 

For  He  that  marks  the  bruised  reed 
Will  never  let  the  wounded  languish. 

Be  still,  my  heart !  —  away,  ye  fears ! 

Tempests  that  have  my  spirit  driven : 
Even  He  who  looked  on  Mary's  tears 

Hath  whispered  —  "  Thou,  too,  art  forgiven.' 


128  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


HYMN 

SUNG  IN   CASTLE   GARDEN,  NEW-YORK,   BY  THE 
SUNDAY   SCHOLARS. 

First  Voices.* 
Oh,  ye  blessed !  on  yonder  plains, 
Worshipping  in  noble  strains, 
Ranks  of  veiled  Seraphim ! 
Uttering  your  melodious  hymn, 
Glorious  Spirits  !  as  ye  bow, 
Bearing  victory's  palm-branch  now, 
Why  to  Jesus  give  renown, 
And  before  him  cast  the  crown  ? 

Second  Voices. 
'T  is  His  love  that  stirs  our  choirs  : 
Silent  were  these  breathing  wires, 
Mute  the  crystal  courts  above, 
If  the  anthem  were  not  Love. 

First  Voices. 
Tell  us,  bright  ones  !  as  ye  kneel, 
Whose  the  richer  notes  that  steal, 

*  The  first  voices  by  the  boys  who  were  in  the  area  of  the  garden. 
The  girls  in  the  gallery  responded  in  the  Second  voice. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  129 

Sweet  and  soothing,  from  your  throng  — 
Silver  voices  mingling  song  ? 

Second  Voices, 
Children,  ever  near  the  throne, 
Bow  in  beauteous  bands  alone  ; 
Cherub  harps  to  these  are  given, 
And  the  fairest  wreaths  of  heaven : 
Praises  float  along  the  strings, 
As  they  wave  rejoicing  wings, 
And  in  lofty  chorus  cry, 
Holy  is  the  Lord,  Most  High  ! " 

First  Voices. 
Warblers !  we  would  waken  here 
Music  of  your  upper  sphere ; 
We  would  hymn  and  worship  thus, 
Were  those  harp-notes  lent  to  us. 

First  and  Second  Voices. 
Jesus  !  while  below  we  sing, 
Hallowed  incense  may  we  bring ; 
Jesus,  hear  us !  —  take  us  where 
Children,  chosen  ministrels  are. 


130  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


CHRIST'S  HUMAMTY. 

"  Christ,  the  holy,  just,  and  true, 
I  could  not  love  as  now  I  do, 
Did  I  think  that  he  were  other 
Than  my  human  friend  and  brother." 

James  Aldrich. 

Christ's  deity  and  humanity;  in  reply  to 
the  foregoing. 

Christ,  my  human  friend,  I  might 

Love,  as  I  would  love  the  man 
Who,  in  all  things  good  and  right, 

Followed  out  his  Maker's  plan ;  — 
Who  was  perfect  in  his  ways, 

Perfect  in  his  thought  and  speech ;  — 
Such  Exemplar  I  would  praise, 

Such  would  follow  where  he  'd  teach. 
But  though  holy,  just,  and  true, 
I  could  not  love  him  as  I  do, 
Did  I  think  he  were  no  other 
"  Than  my  human  friend  and  brother." 

Tost  upon  the  waves  of  sin, 
By  a  tempest  rough  and  dark, 
God  must  send  the  saving  Ark : 

I  ask  not  man  to  take  me  in ! 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  131 

To  a  human  friend  my  song 

Could  not  for  deliverance  rise ; 
To  a  human  Christ  belong 

Not  ascriptions  of  the  skies. 
He,  created,  cannot  save 
Me,  a  creature,  from  the  grave  : 
Power  inferior  has  no  spell 
Over  agonies  of  hell. 
What !  —  were  Glances  from  which  fled 
Sickness,  —  Voice,  at  which  the  dead 

Quivered  in  his  shroud, 
Human  only  ?  —  Come,  Despair  ! 

Come,  ye  dreadful  Doubts  !  a  crowd 
Which  the  Saviour  at  my  prayer 
Cast  out  from  me.     Back  again 
Come  ye  to  my  bosom.     Vain 
Hopes  built  on  Salvation's  plan, 
If  the  Saviour 's  but  a  man  ! 
No !  —  Gethsemane  its  charm 

Loses  of  subduing  sadness  — 
Calvary  for  my  hurt  no  balm 

Hath  of  healing  gladness, 
If  the  Sufferer  whose  blood-sweat 

Bathed  that  sacred  ground  for  me, 
If  the  Man  whose  crimson  wet         - 

For  my  sins,  the  dreadful  tree, 
Is  not  God  and  Man  united !  — 
In  this  wilderness  of  fears, 


132  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Dust  my  food,  my  drink,  my  tears — 
I  should  wander  on,  benighted, 
Every  hope  of  Heaven  blighted, 
Had  I  not  in  all  my  sorrow 
Peace  to-day  and  hope  for  morrow, 
In  the  healing,  pardoning  blood 
Of  the  Incarnate  Man  and  God. 


TO  SPRING. 

Hail,  beauteous  Spring ! 
Attendant  queen  of  flowers  — 

Whose  smiles  dost  bring 
From  Pleasure's  fairy  bowers. 

Hail,  beauteous  Spring ! 
Parent  of  virgin  dews  — 

With  thee  are  seen 
The  Dance  and  laughing  Muse. 

Hail,  beauteous  Spring ! 
We  greet  thy  charming  reign  ; 

Thy  vocal  choirs 
Shall  wake  the  groves  again. 

Thy  song  we  hear 
At  eve  and  early  morn, 

When  rosy  May 
With  Flora  treads  the  lawn. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  133 

Hail,  beauteous  Spring ! 
Daughter  of  early  Love,  — 

For  thou  wilt  bring 
Joy  to  the  mated  Dove. 

All  nature  smiles ; 
Hope  waves  her  halcyon  wing ; 

Sweet  peace  beguiles ; 
Hail  to  thee,  beauteous  Spring ! 


THE  CHILDREN  AND  DOG. 

Happy  sister  !  happy  brother ! 
All  the  world  unto  each  other 
Are  they  at  their  simple  meal ; 
What  can  purer  peace  reveal  ? 
He  has  boyhood's  earnestness, 
She  has  girlish  artlessness  ; 
And  to  share  their  supper,  see, 
Dick  is  begging  wistfully. 
Look  demure,  entreating  eye, 

Lifted  paw,  as  plainly  tell 
As  a  dog  can  utter,  "  I 

Am  a  friend  that  serves  you  well. 
Am  not  I,  the  lonesome  night, 

Wakeful  for  you  when  you  sleep  ? 
If  the  robber  comes,  a  bite 

Bids  him  safer  distance  keep. 


134  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

And  I  toil  the  -winter's  day, 
And  for  you,  the  summer.     Pray 
Who  so  patient  at  your  side 
When  you  walk  and  when  you  ride  ? 
Who  your  dinner  takes  at  noon 

To  the  school-house  in  the  lane  — 
Touching  neither  cloth  nor  spoon  — 

And  the  basket  back  again, 
Emptied,  to  your  mother  brings  ? 
In  a  thousand  little  things, 
In  a  thousand  little  ways, 
For  a  word  or  look  of  praise, 
Dick  is  daily  showing  you 

Dogs  are  faithful ;  and  he  begs, 

Humbly  on  his  hinder  legs, 
For  a  taste  of  supper  too." 

Happy  sister  !  happy  brother ! 

Friendship  is  a  word  of  art 
Spelt  not  by  you  —  each  for  other 

Knows  it  truly  in  the  heart. 
That  it  yields  a  generous  pleasure, 

Selfish  man  can  ne'er  dispute, 
When  he  sees  the  priceless  treasure 

Shared  with  the  deserving  brute. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  135 


CHRIST  BEHIND  THE  DOOR. 

"  A  lady  being  once  invited  to  make  a  visit  at  the  house  of  a  friend, 
said,  '  I  will  go,  provided  you  do  not  keep  Christ  behind  the  door.'  " 

When  thou  talkest  with  thy  neighbor 

On  what  most  concerns, 
And  thy  thought,  to  various  subjects, 

Shifts  by  ready  turns,  — 
Why  so  pressing,  why  so  eager, 

Showing  folly's  store  ? 
Shutting  wisdom  out,  and  keeping 

Christ  behind  the  door  ? 

They  that  feared  Jehovah,  often, 

In  the  former  days, 
Spake  each  to  the  other,  moving 

Each  to  prayer  and  praise. 
They  that  fear  Him  at  the  present, 

Vanity  adore  ; 
Keeping,  while  they  murder  moments, 

Christ  behind  the  door. 

In  the  precious  —  in  the  olden 

Puritanic  rule, 
Never  meeting,  never  parting, 

Worship,  market,  school, 


136  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Saw,  without  an  unction  dropping, 
From  those  saints  of  yore  ; 

Pilgrim  dames  and  damsels  —  kept  they 
Christ  behind  the  door  ? 

To  these  fashions,  to  these  pleasures, 

Words  in  torrents  come ; 
If  "  a  zealot "  names  the  Saviour, 

Quickly  all  are  dumb. 
Vain  professor !  false  professor ! 

Yield  thee  ever  more 
Hope  that  Jesus  Christ  regards  thee  — 

Thrust  behind  the  door. 

How  they  chatter !  how  they  chatter ! 

Zion's  daughters  they  ? 
Nay  !  they  're  Israel's  eating,  drinking, 

Rising  up  to  play. 
Go  thy  wa}r,  poor  Christian,  hoping 

Here  to  gather  store  ; 
All  is  famine  where  is  keeping 

Christ  behind  the  door. 

Ah !  while  noon-tide  hastes  to  even, 

Calling  what  was  lent, 
And  no  savory  word  of  heaven 

Toward  heaven  is  sent, 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  137 

This  may  swell  thy  worldly  treasure, 

Add  to  foolish  lore  — 
He  is  wealthy-wise  who  keeps  not 

Christ  behind  the  door ! 


THE  ANGER  OF  MOSES. 

With  angry  blow  he  smote  the  rock, 

The  obedient  waters  freely  ran  — 
Refreshing  to  the  herd  and  flock, 

Delicious  to  the  lip  of  man. 
He  smote  it  twice,  "  And  Israel ! " 

He  muttered  thus  in  scorning  then, 
"  Must  we  bid  cool  sweet  waters  well 

From  rocks  for  ye,  rebellious  men  !  " 

Heaven  hears,  and  for  this  single  sin 

Its  high  displeasure  waxeth  hot ; 
The  fruitful  land  he  thought  to  win, 

He  may  behold,  but  enter  not. 
O  God !  if  now  the  wanderer  found 

For  his  one  error  doom  like  this, 
Who  of  our  race  could  feel  the  ground 

Secure,  of  hope  for  Canaan's  bliss  ? 


138  POETRY  OP   LIFE. 


LOOK  AT  T  OTHER  SIDE. 

When  Jim  one  day  with  brother  Joe, 

A  simple,  thoughtless  clown, 
With  father's  leave  set  out  to  go, 

And  see  the  shows  in  town  ; 

It  chanced,  while  idly  gaping  round, 

Each  wonder  to  descry, 
An  orange,  fair,  and  seeming  sound, 

Caught  Joe's  attentive  eye. 

Joe  gazed  not  long,  and  straight  had  bought 
With  haste  and  chuckling  pride ; 

But  Jim,  a  youth  of  keener  thought, 
Said,  "  Look  at  t'  other  side ! " 

Joe  viewed  again  without  ado, 

And  questioned  well  his  sight ; 
For  underneath,  half  hid  from  view, 

The  fruit  was  rotten  quite. 

And  since  that  well-remembered  day, 

Whatever  doth  betide, 
Joe  ne'er  by  wrong  is  led  astray, 

But  "  looks  at  t'  other  side  ! " 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  139 

When  fools,  arrayed  in  fortune's  smile, 

Are  puffed  with  haughty  pride, 
Joe  envies  first,  then  thinks  awhile, 

And  "  looks  at  t'  other  side !  " 

When  Scandal  takes  its  busy  round, 

With  huge  and  sweeping  stride, 
Joe  heeds  it  not :  with  thought  profound, 

He  "  looks  at  f  other  side  ! " 

When  urged  in  Dissipation's  maze, 

Corroding  griefs  to  hide, 
Joe  views  the  bowl  with  loathing  gaze, 

And  "  looks  at  t'  other  side  ! " 

When  sad  distress  and  care  are  nigh, 

And  faithless  friends  deride, 
With  humble  hope  and  tearful  eye, 

Joe  "  looks  at  t'  other  side  ! " 

And  when  —  life's  storms  and  perils  past  — 

No  more  he  stems  the  tide, 
With  joy  on  yonder  shores,  at  last, 

He  '11  view  "  the  other  side ! " 


140  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


SUNDAY  SCHOOL  JUBILEE. 

We  praise  thee,  Lord,  for  light  that  shone 
On  England  first,  revealed  from  Thee  ; 

And  now  hath  noontide  splendors  thrown 
Around  our  festive  jubilee. 

In  gladness  and  in  peace  it  came 
To  win  the  troubled  wanderer  nigh  ; 

Its  symbol  was  a  Saviour's  name  ; 

Its  token,  toil ;  its  watchword,  "  Try ! " 

Its  eagle  track  is  high  in  air  ; 

Its  standard  sheet  is  wide  unfurled, 
Whose  waving  folds  of  victory  bear 

Release  and  ransom  to  a  world. 

Joy  for  its  blessings  to  the  child 
That  ages  saw  flung  back  on  sin ; 

Now  gathered  from  destruction's  wild, 
And  brought  the  Shepherd's  fold  within  ! 

Joy  for  its  Christian-soldier  bands 

Whose  high  emprise  hath  millions  blest ; 

Whose  march  is  o'er  the  Eastern  lands, 
Whose  conquests  reach  the  distant  West ! 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  141 

Oh !  as  this  hour,  the  world's  deep  gaze, 
Withdrawn  from  its  own  dark  misrule  — 

Is  fixed  in  wonder  on  the  rays 

That  cluster  round  the  Sunday  School ; 

In  that  pure  brightness  bid  it  see 

The  day-dawn  blushing  o'er  the  skies, 

In  whose  meridian  every  knee 

Shall  bend,  while  Earth's  hosannas  rise. 


A  COLLOQUY  EN  THE  STUDY. 

I  will  not  hence,  thy  sacred  truth 

Unto  the  lost  to  show, 
Unless,  0  Lord !  with  me  in  sooth 

Thou  graciously  wilt  go. 

I  cannot  stir  to  yonder  place  : 

I  'm  too  unwise  and  weak 
With  Thee  to  commune,  face  to  face, 

And  in  thy  Name  to  speak. 

I  cannot  now  unlock  the  store 
Of  knowledge ;  for  my  mind 

Itself  is  groping  at  the  door 
Of  Wisdom,  halt  and  blind. 


142  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

I  may  not  tell  what  "wealth  of  gold 

Bedecks  the  eternal  skies, 
While  vanities  of  me  have  hold, 

And  earth  fills  all  mine  eyes. 

I  cannot  stand,  unshrinking,  up 

Before  my  fellow-man, 
And  tender  him  the  awful  cup, 

Charged  with  his  bliss  or  ban  ; 

And  with  Thy  keen  and  shining  sword, 
The  joints  and  marrow  part ; 

And  show  him,  by  Thy  searching  word, 
The  secrets  of  his  heart ; 

And  speak  of  the  outgushing  streams 

From  Calvary  that  roll, 
And  to  the  Dayspring's  blushing  beams 

Direct  his  darkened  soul. 

I  'm  not  in  exercise  of  faith 
That  Heaven  to-day  will  win  ; 

I  trust  not  what  the  Almighty  saith 
To  him  who  turns  from  sin. 

I  'm  not  in  earnest,  that  "  there 's  room  " 
For  all  who  mercy  choose ; 

I  do  not  mourn  his  certain  doom 
Who  will  that  grace  refuse. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  143 

I  fear  me,  through  my  unbelief. 

Some  soul  may  enter  hell ; 
Shall  I,  of  unbelievers  chief, 

Of  faith  in  Jesus  tell  ? 

I,  who  so  richly  merit  wrath, 

A  wanderer  all  my  days, 
Shall  I  point  out  the  narrow  path, 

Whence  no  true  pilgrim  strays  ? 

I  touch  the  soul's  deep  springs  ?  —  the  tear 

Call  forth  ?  yes,  even  I 
Dispel  the  involuntary  fear 

And  light  the  clouded  eye, 

Who  am  myself  so  dark  and  cold, 

Whose  fears  at  times  are  great ; 
Who  tremble  when  I  should  be  bold,  — 

Who  often  doubt  my  state  ? 

Impossible  it  is  to  preach 

Unaided  from  the  throne  ; 
My  waiting  flock  let  who  will  teach, 

I  will  not  go  alone  I 

O  midnight  wrestler  !  dost  thou  fail 

When  day  peeps  forth  abroad  ? 
Up,  trembler  !  learn  how  they  prevail 

Who  take  the  strength  of  God. 


144  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


And  turn  thee  from  poor,  sinful  self, 

To  Help  above  thine  own  ; 
And,  tired  of  human  learning's  pelf, 

To  riches  of  the  throne. 

Yes,  turn  from  books,  and  toil,  and  thought, 

To  Him,  the  glorious  Man, 
Whose  blood  both  flock  and  shepherd  bought  ■ 

Redeeming  as  it  ran. 

And  in  thy  utter  weakness,  find 

The  Rock  of  Ages  strong ; 
And  in  thy  sin,  the  Perfect  Mind  — 

Thy  soul's  rejoicing  song. 

Then,  freed  from  darkness,  speak  of  light 

That  floods  Redemption's  way  ; 
And  set  the  sinner's  feet  aright, 

Whence  he  may  never  stray. 

O  wondrous  Saviour !  who  hast  all 

I  need,  Thy  glory  show ;  — 
Now  in  thine  arms,  poor,  weak,  I  fall ; 

Now  in  Thy  strength  I  'll  go  ! 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  145 


COMPLAINT  TO  THE  STE ANGER,  YET 
NIGH. 

O  Stranger  !  yet  to  me  for  ever  near  ; 
Light  ever  shining  round  me,  though  I  walk 
Often  in  darkness ;  Voice,  of  accents  clear, 
Though  earth-stopt  ears  shut  out  thy  heavenly  talk ; 

Where  art  thou  ?  — If  about  me,  why  these  fears  ? 
If  in  my  soul,  why  is  this  midnight  there  ? 
If  smiling  on  my  spirit,  whence  these  tears  ? 
If  whispering  peace,  this  silence  of  despair  ? 

Why  go  I,  mourning,  to  the  mercy-seat  ? 
And  why  so  cold  before  inviting  Love  ? 
Why,  when  heart-prostrate  at  thy  bleeding  feet, 
Will  not  this  heart  with  real  feeling  move  ? 

How  can  I  hear  the  agonizing  groan, 
Which,  hourly,  from  Gethsemane  I  hear, 
Nor  my  rebellious  passions  much  bemoan, 
Nor  for  my  base  transgressions  give  the  tear  ? 

How  can  I  think  upon  the  rabble-scorn, 
The  horrid  laugh,  the  soldier's  mocking  cry, 
The  whip,  the  robe,  the  crown  of  cruel  thorn, 
Nor  bid  my  sins  once  and  for  ever  die  ! 
10 


146  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

How  can  I  gaze  upon  thine  awful  Cross, 
Where  Faith  beholds  thee  daily  racked  for  me, 
Nor  count  this  idolized  vain  self  but  loss, 
And  viler  than  the  vil'st,  compared  with  Thee  ? 

How  can  I  greet  thy  day  of  blessings,  when 
Weekly  reminded  by  its  Sabbath  light 
Of  vict'ry  over  hell  and  hellish  men, 
And  not  essay  sin's  victory  in  thy  might  ? 

How  can  I  gaze  upon  thy  pictured  life, 
All  perfect,  all  transparent,  and  divine, 
And  not  with  raging  lusts  wage  deadly  strife, 
If  so  the  Exemplar  may  indeed  be  mine  ? 

How  look  at  my  own  life  with  other  thought 
Than  sorrow,  loathing,  unforgiving  hate  ! 

0  thou  by  whose  one  purchase  I  am  bought, 
Incarnate  Sufferer,  God  Immaculate, 

1  cling  to  Thee !  —  all  doubting,  trembling,  cling 
Only  to  Thee  !  —  for  am  I  not  thine  own  ? 
Didst  thou  not  call  me  ?  —  did  I  not  thee  bring 
And  give  thee  all  ?  —  0  !  leave  me  not  alone. 

Am  I  not  thine  ?  —  whose  else  ?  —  from  sin  I  shrink ; 
I  cannot  fellowship  with  thy  lost  foe  ; 
Think  of  thy  blood,  my  Saviour !  and  bethink 
Thyself  of  me,  for  whom  that  stream  did  flow. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  147 


Body  and  soul  I  gave  thee  in  that  hour ; 
Body  and  soul,  redeemed  for  aye  by  blood ; 
A  slave,  set  free  from  Satan's  captive  power ; 
A  slave  adopted  as  a  Son  of  God ! 

By  thy  sad  passion  in  the  Garden,  hear ! 

By  thy  dread  pangs,  to  mortal  men  unknown  ! 

By  thy  last  superhuman  cry,  O  hear  ! 

My  Lord,  my  Saviour !  leave  me  not  alone  ! 

Though  thee  not  loving,  as  I  know  I  should ; 
Though  sin  not  hating,  as  I  feel  I  may  ; 
Though  holiness  not  having,  as  I  would ; 
Though  stricken  oft,  yet  wandering  oft  away  ; 

Yet  I  do  love  thee,  and  in  thee  delight ; 
And  hate  I  sin  and  self  yet  more  and  more ; 
In  holiness'  true  way,  though  not  the  light 
I  've  gained,  yet  entered  am  within  th<?  door ; 

And  think  I  see  its  glimmerings,  like  a  star, 
Beckoning  me  on.     Thou,  that  art  midnight's  gem, 
Burst  out  in  glory  on  me,  and  afar 
Guide  to  Thyself — the  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 

Doubting  and  fearing,  to  Emmaus,  lo  ! 
I  travel ;  mourning,  till  the  shut  of  day ; 
"With  me  that  journey,  blessed  Stranger,  go ; 
My  heart  shall  burn  within  me  by  the  way. 


148  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Groping  and  stumbling,  do  I  take  thy  hand 
And  grasp  it  —  for  salvation's  self  is  there ; 
And  thou  shalt  lead  me  to  the  "  better  land," 
And  with  such  staff  I  may  not  —  can't  despair. 

And,  irrespective  of  thy  purpose,  me 
To  save,  I  '11  worship  thee  for  what  thou  art ; 
And  as  I  'm  thine,  thou  mine  wilt  ever  be ; 
My  Lord  !  my  God  !  I  give  thee  all  my  heart. 

My  Lord  !  my  God  !  I  covenant  yet  with  Thee 
Over  and  over.     By  a  tenfold  cord 
Stronger  than  Death  —  volition  all  left  free  — 
And  soft  as  Love,  bind  me  to  thee,  my  Lord ! 

Now,  in  my  darkness,  I  believe  Thee  nigh  ; 
Now,  with  my  Comforter,  in  grief  I  'm  blest ; 
Come  near  me  ;  so  that  heavy  laden,  I, 
Thee  all-possessing,  may  in  Thee  have  rest. 

Come  nearer  !  —  All  desires  are  lost  in  one  ; 
One  strong  desire  to  be  set  free  from  sin  ; 
And  thou  canst  grant  it.     Grant  it,  holy  Son, 
And  this  poor,  happy  soul  for  ever  win ! 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  149 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

Mix  me,  child,  a  cup  divine, 
Crystal  water,  ruby  wine  ; 
Here,  upon  this  flowing  bowl, 
I  surrender  all  my  soul ! 

Moore's  Anacreon. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore ! 

Since  this  rhapsody  of  thine ; 
Men,  to  reason  brought,  adore 

Other  Deity  than  wine  : 
None  will  madly  pledge  the  soul 
Noio,  upon  the  flowing  bowl. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore  ! 

Drinking  hard  is  not  genteel  — 
Since  't  is  found  this  inner  core 

Of  the  heart  is  made  to  feel : 
Where  the  revel  once  had  grace, 
Wife  and  children  now  have  place. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore  ! 

Men,  of  gaudy  vice  afraid, 
Count,  as  something  worse  than  bore, 

Paphian  boy  and  Bacchante  maid, 
Or  the  butterfly  that  sips 
Sparkling  cups  and  rosy  lips. 


150  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Times  are  altered,  Thomas  Moore  ! 

Doubtful  song  has  had  its  day ; 
If  you  give  us  Grecian  lore, 

Leave  Anacreon  out,  we  pray. 
Purge  your  book  and  cleanse  your  heart, 
Ere  you  from  the  stage  depart. 


FORGIVENESS. 

<(  They  met  a  party  of  men  and  women,  carrying  a  sick  chief  over 
the  mountains,  who  was  evidently  dying.  It  was  affecting  to  see  him 
stretching  forth  his  hand  to  them  as  they  passed,  as  if  desiring  to  be 
friends  with  all  before  he  died." — Wilkes's  Exploring  Expedition. 

While  gaily  leaps  the  pulse  of  life, 
We  may  our  erring  brother  spurn, 

And,  careless,  fan  the  coals  of  strife, 
And  bid  revenge  and  anger  burn ; 

Forgetful  that  with  his  our  name 
Is  written  in  the  "  dreadful  Book," 

Awaiting  final  praise  or  blame 
For  every  action,  word,  and  look ; 

Forgetful  that  the  lot  to  sin 

Is  common  as  to  live  and  die  — 

And,  won  by  love,  that  we  should  win 
By  kindly  word  and  gentle  eye  ; 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  151 

That  much  of  pain  to  fellow-man 

We  may  by  due  reflection  spare, 
If,  lifting  from  his  heart  the  ban, 

We  search  our  own  and  lay  it  there. 

We  'd  bury  all  his  faults  in  love, 
And  put  unworthy  scorn  to  flight, 

Did  we  but  think  an  Eye  above 
Sets  ours  in  its  transparent  light. 

And  that  we  ask  on  bended  knee 

That  our  offences  may  not  live, 
With  Reason  and  Religion's  plea ; 

"For  others,  also,  we  forgive." 

Yet  when  disease  the  sense  appals, 
And  strength  and  beauty  waste  away, 

And  sullen  pain  its  victim  calls, 

And  joy,  and  hope,  and  life  decay  — 

Forgiveness  needing  at  the  door 

To  which  our  trembling  footsteps  tend, 

We  charge  our  pride  to  swell  no  more, 
And  every  foe  becomes  a  friend. 


152  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


SUNDAY-EVENING  VERSES. 

In  weakness  and  in  trembling, 

I  spoke,  O  God  !  to-day, — 
No  threat  of  thine  dissembling, 

No  promise  kept  away. 
Thy  will  to  men  revealing, 

With  unction  from  above, 
I  sin  rebuked  with  feeling, 

And  comforted  in  love. 

Yet,  were  I  ready  Aaron, 

Or  were  I  gifted  Paul, 
Unless  Thou  teachest,  barren 

And  profitless  were  all. 
The  zealous  tongue  may  clamor, 

The  stupid  heart  to  wake : 
Thy  Spirit  is  the  hammer 

Which  only  can  it  break. 

A  broad  and  lovely  margin 
Is  Truth,  with  flowerets  set, 

Through  which,  its  wealth  discharging, 
Flows  Prayer,  the  rivulet : 


♦-T 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  153 

Though  beautiful  the  border, 

Art  thou,  rny  soul,  content, 
Till  swifter,  deeper,  broader, 

The  onward  stream  is  sent  ? 

I  count  it  solid  pleasure, 

I  count  it  lasting  fame, 
To  guide  the  poor  to  treasure 

Concealed  in  Jesus'  Name  ; 
Yet  if  the  soul's  glance,  flashing, 

Sends  not  to  mine  its  spark, 
I  am,  where  waves  are  dashing, 

A  star  untrue  and  dark. 

To  vanquish  Baal,  before  me 

Go,  Pleading  that  prepares  ! 
At  altars  waiting,  o'er  me 

Rise,  cloud  of  Christian  prayers  ! 
In  answer  to  my  calling, 

In  answer  to  their  cry, 
The  fire  of  Heaven,  falling, 

Shall  lick  the  trenches  dry. 

Called  down,  at  Prayer's  desire, 

To  bless  the  Jewish  world, 
Thy  glory,  at  Moriah, 

O'er  shrine  and  pillar  curled  : 


154  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

I  ask  not  now  the  splendor 
Which  dazzles  aching  sight ; 

But,  Lord,  the  glimpses  render 
That  fill  the  heart  with  light ! 


TO  MY  COUNTRY. 

A  sorry  spectacle  dost  thou  present 

Unto  the  world's  broad  gaze  ; 
The  garment  of  thy  comeliness  is  rent ; 

Cast  out  in  the  highways, 

And  lying  in  thy  blood,  naked,  abhorred, 

Art  thou,  of  hopes  so  high  ! 
Whose  infancy  was  blessed  of  the  Lord, 

Whose  youth,  beneath  his  eye, 

Flourished,  approved.    For  thee,  the  world  hath 
tears, 

That  thou,  —  who  with  such  grace, 
Beauty,  and  glory,  didst  among  thy  peers 

Assert,  and  take  thy  place, 

Fairest  of  all  the  nations  ;  o'er  whose  head 

Was  victory's  banner  flying ; 
A  new  world  for  thy  empire,  whither  fled 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  155 

Shouldst  put  at  fault  all  prophecy,  all  hope, 

"Which  have  the  Ages  blest  — 
That  boundless  Mind  should  revel  with  free  scope 

In  the  exhaustless  West ; 

That  here,  at  length,  the  desolating  wave 

Of  Cruelty  should  be  stayed ; 
That  mad  Oppression,  in  its  deep,  deep  grave, 

Should  here  for  aye  be  laid. 

Repent  thee  !  — Nations  for  thy  daring  crime 

Weep  sorely  ;  shouldst  not  thou  ? 
Nineveh  once  to  put  off  sin  had  time  ; 

For  thee  that  time  is  NOW  ! 

Do  it !  and  take  thy  place,  the  highest,  where 

Sit  the  old  crowns  ;  thine  own 
Brighter  and  lovelier,  beyond  compare, 

Than  ever  decked  a  throne. 

Do  it !  and  fireside  talk  and  hymns  of  home 

Shall  be  where  rings  the  whip, 
And  blessings  on  the  rich  man's  field  and  dome 

Be  on  the  poor  man's  lip. 

Do  it !  and  in  America's  new  song 

Sincerely  shall  join  all ; 
Do  it !  and  unto  God,  in  shouts,  loud,  long, 

What  freeman  will  not  call  ? 


156  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


M.    A. 

The  few  I  have  tried  in  this  hollow  world, 

Like  jewels  of  worth  in  chaff  impearled, 

Have  paled  as  I  looked,  and  faded  away 

To  shine  in  coronals  of  perfect  day. 

The  few  I  have  loved  in  its  desolate  path, 

Who  lightened  its  sorrows  and  blunted  its  scath, 

Have  followed  each  other  on  speedier  wing, 

Impatient  for  glory.     O  God  !  what  a  thing 

Of  misery  and  mocking  is  one  thus  bereft ;  — 

All  gone  life's  endearments,  and  he  alone  left ! 

Why  is  it,  the  gifted  and  gracious,  who  thus 

Almost  the  whole  species  redeem  from  the  curse 

Of  selfishness  —  deeply  burnt  into  the  heart  — 

Just  show  what  was  Eden,  and  quickly  depart ; 

Just  come  on  our  darkness  with  light  that  illumes 

Like  the  storm-flash  that  leaves  us  to  drearier  glooms  ? 

Just  make  us  in  love  with  real  goodness,  and  then 

Vanish  like  angels  from  bowers  of  men  ? 

Is  it  to  wean  us  from  all  that  below 

Glads  us,  and  cheats  with  ephemeral  show  ? 

Is  it  from  earth  to  the  heavenly  blue 

Bidding  us  look,  and  feel  nothing  is  true 

Or  beautiful  long  on  the  dust  Ave  have  trod  — 

That  the  true  and  the  lovely  are  only  for  God  ? 


FOETRY    OF    LIFE.  157 

Such,  Mary  !  wast  thou  —  and  invited  to  range 
The  pathway  of  brightness,  but  little  the  change 
That  was  needed  for  thee ;  —  't  was  only  to  stop 
On  the  threshold  and  smile  thy  farewell,  and  so  drop 
The  garment  of  clay  that  but  cumbered,  and  then, 
For  transports,  mortality  never  may  ken  ! 
I  return  thy  farewell,  and  hence  softly  will  tread 
The  path  that  yet  winds  'mid  the  dying  and  dead ; 
And  checking,  at  thought  of  thy  freedom,  the  tear, 
As  Time  takes  each  link  up  that  fetters  me  here, 
Will  thank  our  kind  Father,  a  holier  rest, 
A  balm  for  the  mourner,  a  home  for  the  blest 
Are  thine,  where  is  garnered  nor  falsehood  nor  folly, 
Nor  tears  of  the  broken,  nor  dark  melancholy  — 
But  where  the  sweet  fountains  that  murmur  in  sounds 
Of  music,  are  flowing  o'er  happier  grounds ; 
Where  wander  for  ever,  in  beautiful  bloom, 
Earth's  languid  and  sick,  and  the  lost  of  the  tomb ; 
Where  the  innocent  babe  like  a  bud  never  dies, 
Where  the  hand  of  compassion  wipes  tears  from  all  eyes ; 
Where  the  city  of  God  shoots  its  pinnacles  high, 
Whose  walls  of  clear  jasper  ne'er  echo  the  sigh ; 
Where  yet  I  may  hope,  in  the  sapphire-laid  street, 
Thee,  Mary  !  with  others  long  wept  for,  to  meet. 
Thou  canst  not,  O  Grave !  there  thy  victory  bring  — 
Thou  canst  not,  0  Death !  follow  there  with  thy  sting. 


158  POETRY  OF  LIFE. 


FOURTH-OF-JULY  FAIE  AND  TEA  PARTY. 

Rise  !  and  celebrate  the  Day 
When  our  fathers  cast  away 
Cords  of  Britain ;  when  our  land 
Leaped  at  word  of  the  decree 
That  a  Continent  was  free  — 
Promulgated  by  the  band 
Who  in  counsel,  hand  in  hand, 
Who  in  angry  battle  stood, 
Making  every  tittle  good 
Of  their  Declaration,  hurled 
In  the  face  of  half  a  world. 
Rise  !  and  celebrate  !  —  By  song, 
Flowing  with. the  cup  along? 
At  the  board  of  noisy  cheer, 
Where  the  fool  and  brute  appear  ? 
Pise  !  and  celebrate  !  —  With  laugh, 
Pinging  from  a  head  of  chaff, 
Where  the  undiscerning  mind 
To  true  Liberty  is  blind ; 
Where  the  thoughtless  fail  to  scan 
The  right  estimate  of  Man, 
And,  while  boasting  o'er  the  graves 
Of  those  martyrs,  are  but  slaves  ? 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  159 

Thus  may  Folly —  never  can 
Wisdom  celebrate  it  so, 
Making  mock  of  Freedom ;  No  ! 
'T  is  her  privilege  to  show, 
That,  in  every  deed  and  thought, 
To  the  test  of  conscience  brought  — 
And  by  conscience  fairly  tried, 
God  is  only  glorified. 
What !  shall  our  great  Jubilee, 
Proudest  on  the  roll  of  fame  — 
By  perversion  merely  be 
Calendared  to  greatest  shame  ? 
Perish,  sooner,  Freedom's  name ! 
Perish,  all  we  justly  claim 
Noblest,  purest,  brightest,  best ; 
Freedom,  then,  were  but  a  jest. 
Celebrate  !  and  to  His  glory 
Acts  rehearse  of  ancient  story ;  — 
Celebrate !  and  in  your  lays 
Give  the  King  of  nations  praise ; 
Celebrate  !  and  by  your  deeds 
Show,  when  Mercy  intercedes, 
You  can  hearken  ;  and  are  able 
Gifts  on  this  entreating  table 
With  alacrity  to  lay, 
As  your  tribute  for  the  Day  ;  — 
Gold,  by  eagles,  if  you  choose  it, 
Silver  —  we  will  not  refuse  it ; 


160  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Pennies,  though  but  little  things, 
If  the  heart  the  offering  brings, 
Are  a  gift  as  truly  given, 
And  accepted  are  of  Heaven. 
Gifts  be  yours  of  Heaven's  increase ! 
Ne'er  for  you  Earth's  blessings  cease  ! 
Leave  your  offering  !    Go  in  peace ! 


THE  DEVOTED. 

Oh  !  blest  is  he  who  cares 

That  God  has  glory  given  ; 
Whose  faith,  and  alms,  and  toils,  and  prayers, 

Are  leading  souls  to  Heaven. 

And  greatly  blest  is  he 

Who  labors,  prays,  and  -weeps, 
That  Christ  may  of  his  travail  see 

Beyond  the  distant  deeps. 

Such  —  entering  into  rest  — 

The  Chinese,  saved,  shall  own  ; 
The  African  will  hail  him  blest, 

And  children  of  Ceylon. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  161 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  —  THE  CONFLICT. 

"  Six  hundred  millions  bound  for  Night," 

Reluctant  Truth  has  given ; 
"  Two  hundred  millions  in  the  sight 
Of  Charity,  for  Heaven," 
Yet  of  this  pittance,  say,  are  all 
Redeemed  by  Blood  from  Error's  thrall  ? 

Book  of  the  Future  !  though  thy  lids 
To  open,  Reason  me  forbids, 

Yet  Reason  tells  me,  too : 
Of  these  two  hundred  millions,  half 
God  winnows  from  the  worthless  chaff, 

And  shows  a  remnant  — few  ! 

The  Angel,  whose  Behest  shall  save, 

Through  the  wide  Heaven  flies ; 
Legions  of  warring  heralds  wave 

The  broad-sword  of  the  skies :  — 
Dove  of  the  Lord !  whose  snow-wings  dip 

In  streams  of  Endless  Life  — 
'Tis  vain !  unless  the  heart  and  lip 

Thou  touchest  for  the  strife. 


11 


162  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  FORGER  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 

When  the  sentence  of  the  law  was  pronounced  on  Mitchell,  the 
forger  (late  member  of  Congress),  his  aged  mother  stood  by  his  side, 
with  his  hand  clasped  in  hers.  She  afterward  accompanied  him  to 
the  gate  of  the  State  Prison. 

He  who  would  order  break 

To  soothe  insatiate  pride, 
Who  leaves,  for  Folly's  wake, 

Safe  Wisdom's  pleasant  tide, 
May  sink  in  depths,  or,  on  the  swell 
Of  billows,  onward  sweep  to  hell. 

Lost  to  thyself  and  shame, 

The  execrating  land 
Ringing  with  thy  lapsed  name, 

Now,  legislator !  stand 
Among  the  vile  a  moral  stench, 
A  felon  at  the  frowning  bench. 

The  world's  poor  flattery  fled, 

By  friends  regarded  not, 
Thy  partner  —  worse  than  dead  — 

Thee  leaving  to  thy  lot, 
Cover,  Oblivion's  dreary  pall, 
The  abject  wretch,  cast  out  of  all ! 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  163 

And  chiefly  from  his  eye 

Shut  out  that  stricken  form  I 
Better  at  once  to  die, 

And  meet  the  eternal  storm, 
Than  bide  —  for  hath  that  tempest  worse  ?  — 
An  aged,  injured  mother's  curse. 

Not  one  !  O  Heaven  !  not  one 

To  look  upon  his  face  ! 
To  pity  the  undone, 

To  show  sweet  Mercy's  grace, 
Or  break  Despair's  terrific  spell ; 
Not  one !  not  one  !  Hell  ?  this  is  Hell. 

Yes  !  —  while  the  law  its  cup 

Prepares  of  bitter  doom, 
And  shuts  the  guilty  up 

In  misery's  living  tomb, 
Behold  the  Mother  by  him  stand, 
And  clasp  within  her  own  his  hand  ! 

And  tells  not  this  the  story  of  a  love 

Stronger  than  death  ?  ay,  stronger  than  disgrace  ? 
Such  deep-engrossing  spirit 's  from  above  ; 

Earth,  sordid,  selfish,  hath  of  it  no  trace. 

The  fountain  of  a  Mother's  love,  Love  keeps. 

Angels  watch  round  it ;  from  it  floweth  ever 
A  tide  more  certain  than  the  constant  deeps  — 

The  blue  wide  waste  of  waves  that  faileth  never. 


164  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

And  he,  her  first-born,  idle,  dissolute, 
Heartless,  deceptive,  cruel  though  he  be, 

With  less  of  human  in  his  soul  than  brute, 
Lost  in  the  mire  of  vile  debauchery ; 

Or,  with  the  unlawful  thirst  of  golden  gain, 
Who  has  his  priceless  honor  sold  for  dross, 

And  bargained,  madly,  for  enduring  pain  ; 
Yes,  in  his  cunning,  won  accursed  loss ; 

At  the  tribunal  for  his  deed  arraigned, 

With  every  eye  in  scorn  upon  him  bending ; 

Cast  out  by  friend  and  foe,  too  foully  stained, 

Too  deeply  scarred  by  guilt,  for  man's  befriending ; 

In  her  true  love  finds  refuge,  solace,  hope  ; 

She  cheers  him  with  the  glimpse  of  better  days, 
And  for  his  evil  star  shows  horoscope 

Foretelling  brightness  round  his  future  ways. 

Saith  the  Wise  Son  of  Sirach,  "  For  his  child 
The  father's  thought  at  midnight  sadly  waketh ;  " 

But  for  her  son,  whom  folly  hath  defiled, 

The   mother's   heart,   surcharged   with   anguish, 
breaketh. 

The  love  that  fondly  o'er  her  infant  hung, 

The  while  he  drew  life  from  its  sacred  source,  — 

The  love,  that,  like  an  aegis,  round  him  flung 
Most  sure  protection  in  his  boyhood's  course,  — 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  165 

That  lingered  in  his  step  of  graceful  youth, 
Haunting  his  every  walk  with  watchful  care, 

Invoking  splendors  of  celestial  Truth 

To  wrap  his  mind  and  ask  admission  there,  — 

Hath  followed  him :  yes,  as  the  radiant  star 
Unerring,  of  the  pure  and  polar  sky,  — 

That  shines  on  ocean's  wanderer  afar, 

'T  will  shine  on  him  till  Love  and  Nature  die. 

0  Son  !  abuse  not,  slight  not,  love  like  this. 

By  memory  of  the  precepts  at  her  knee, 
By  the  sweet  token  of  her  fond,  first  kiss, 

Cross  not  by  crime  her  holy  hope  for  thee ! 

By  the  sad  hour  that  comes  at  last  to  call 
Her,  a  free  spirit,  to  the  stainless  skies ; 

By  thoughts  of  her  green  grave ;  yes,  and  by  all 
The  vain  regrets  which  o'er  that  grave  may  rise ; 

Heed  thou  thy  Mother  !     Heed  the  earnest  love 
That  error  in  her  child  can  ne'er  abate ; 

And  on  her  clouded  path  that  leads  above, 
Let  joy  for  thee  a  beauteous  rainbow  wait. 

In  all  thy  joys  she  hath  a  fervent  joy  ; 

The  flame  that  on  her  altar  burns  is  thine  ; 
Thy  griefs  are  hers,  and  Ages,  that  destroy 

All  other  temples,  reverence  this  shrine. 


166  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

For  gloweth  not  this  flame  in  other  sphere  ? 

Yes,  she  who  soars  from  night  and  thee  away, 
Follows,  with  blessed  eyes,  thy  footsteps  here, 

Till  thou  escape,  like  her,  to  perfect  Day. 

Sorrows  will  cluster  round  thy  path  below, 

Thou  mayst  not  wholly  shun  this  common  doom ; 

But  love  thy  mother,  fear  thy  God,  and  so, 

'Mid  thorns  of  life,  for  thee  shall  flowerets  bloom. 


H.  H. 

Why  tarry  ye,  ordained  to  bear 
The  dead  to  slumbers  Jesus  blest  ? 

Arise !  and  take  these  relics  where 
The  weary  Christian  seeks  a  rest. 

Yet  stay  —  one  little  moment  more, 
Ere  round  his  form  is  wrapt  the  sod  ; 

One  look  —  the  last  —  the  last,  before 
It  quickens  at  the  trump  of  God ! 

One  look  of  love  and  true  respect. 

How  full,  how  deep  the  tides  that  swell, 
As  on  these  shores  we  recollect 

Departed  worth,  and  sigh  "  farewell !  " 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  167 

Farewell  to  him  of  envied  lot, 

So  rare  in  life's  mysterious  plan  — 
To  pass  its  trial  free  from  blot — 

At  peace  with  God,  at  peace  with  Man ! 

Farewell  to  him  of  bounty  large  — 
Who  gather  here,  the  corse  to  bless  ? 

Ah  !  his  peculiar  sacred  charge, 
The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless. 

Farewell  to  him  whose  walk  below 
"Was  his  of  upward  heart  and  eyes ; 

Whose  shining  streams  of  treasure  flow 
Freely,  in  the  superior  skies  ! 

Farewell  —  farewell  —  and  yet  not  long ; 

For  us  will  tears  be  duly  shed ; 
For  us  will  sorrow  give  her  song ;  — 

But  shall  we  press  as  kind  a  bed  ? 

Up,  silent  men !  who  Avait  to  bear 

This  dust  to  slumbers  Jesus  blest ; 
And  softly,  sadly,  take  it  where 

The  weary  Christian  finds  a  rest. 


168  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


SACKED  SONG. 

In  Judah,  now,  the  minstrel's  lyre 

Is  hushed,  for  mirth  has  winged  its  flight ; 

In  Zion's  courts,  the  holy  fire 

Is  quenched,  and  sorrow  veils  the  night. 

No  sound  disturbs  thee,  Solyma  ! 

Save  some  disciple's  lowly  moan ; 
No  lamp  illumes  yon  vaulted  way, 

Save  one  pale  orb  that  burns  alone. 

*T  is  Bethlehem's  Star !  the  holy  gem 
That  hailed  the  Godhead  from  the  skies ; 

'Tis  Bethlehem's  Star — the  diadem 
That  tells  the  Conqueror  shall  rise. 

He  rises !  and  the  golden  choir 

Of  angel-minstrels  wakes  the  song ; 

He  rises  —  mortals  !  catch  the  fire, 
And  strains  of  ecstasy  prolong. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  169 


CHAINS. 

Chaix  a  man  to  abject  labor, 
Yoke  him  with  the  stupid  brute  ; 

Then,  from  thy  unrighteous  sowing, 
Watch  the  true  unholy  fruit. 

From  immortal  Mind  't  is  springing, 
Mind,  that  bondage  has  debased  — 

Mean,  contemptible  to  vision  — 
Loathsome,  bitter  to  the  taste. 

Stubborn  man,  with  base  dishonor, 
Struggles  madly  for  a  day  ; 

Yet  at  night  he  loves  his  prison, 
And  his  fetters  are  his  play. 

Chain  a  Woman  —  if  thou  darest ; 

Task  her,  mock  her,  crush  her  low ; 
Scourge  her  —  if  thou  art  a  devil  — 

Is  she  sordid  ?    abject  ?  —  No  ! 

Meanness  reaches  not  the  temple 
Hallowed  in  her  inner  part ; 

Anguish,  chain,  and  lash,  and  mockery 
Never  soil  a  Woman's  heart. 


170  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

Selfishness  becomes  more  selfish 
In  the  fretting  storms  of  life,  — 

While  the  pure,  exalted  spirit 
Waxes  purer  in  the  strife. 


THE  ARK  ABSENT. 

"And  it  came  to  pass,  while  the  ark  ahode  in  Kirjath-jearim,  that 
the  time  was  long ;  for  it  was  twenty  years  ;  and  all  the  house  of  Israel 
lamented  after  the  Lord.  And  they  gathered  together  to  Mizpeh,  and 
drew  water,  and  poured  it  out  before  the  Lord,  and  fasted  on  that  day, 
and  said  there,  We  haye  sinned  against  the  Lord." — 1  Sam.  vii.  2,  6. 

Thy  story  this,  my  discontented  soul !  — 
Once  —  oh  !  how  briefly  !  —  dwelt  the  Ark  with  thee  ; 
Then  might  the  swelling  deeps  of  trouble  roll, 
Then  might  thy  fondest  hope  take  wings  and  flee ;  — 

Thou  fear'dst  not,  car'dst  not  —  more  than  all  beside, 
A  constant  faith,  a  panacea  were  thine  ; 
And  hope  might  vanish ;  thou  the  storm  couldst  ride, 
Scathless,  while  with  thee  dwelt  the  Ark  divine. 

Didst  thou  not  duly  prize  the  heavenly  Guest, 
And  plead  with  Mercy  thee  to  strip  as  bare 
As  Job,  if  such  sharp  trial  were  so  blest 
As  thee,  poor  drowsy  spirit,  to  prepare 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  171 

For  keener  relish  of  remaining  joys  ? 
Thou,  wakened,  purified,  and  rendered  meet 
By  discipline  to  hear  and  love  the  voice 
Which  won  thee  down  from  pride  to  Jesus'  feet  ? 

Or  wast  thou  selfish  in  that  earnest  cry  ? 
Thy  good  desiring  rather  than  His  glory, 
Who  will  have  honor  though  the  creature  die  ? 
If  so,  no  marvel  at  thy  'plaining  story. 

Absent  will  be  His  smile  —  that  smile  is  Heaven  — 
His  Love  will  eager  pinion  spread  for  flight ; 
And  thou  wilt  wander  on,  sin  unforgiven, 
In  Meshech's  depths,  in  Kedar's  tents  of  night, 

Till  humbled,  broken,  at  his  feet  reclining, 
Thou  learnest  how  to  yield  Him  up  the  whole ; 
And  will,  affection,  wit,  to  Him  resigning, 
Dost  know  the  sweetness  of  an  humbled  soul. 

Then,  with  the  music  of  a  thousand  songs, 
With  snow-white  kine  to  fetch  the  treasure  home, 
And  praise  to  God,  to  whom  it  well  belongs, 
The  Ark  to  thee  returns,  no  more  to  roam. 


172  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


MY  IDOL. 

I  've  an  ancient  Idol,  which 
Lately  filled  its  narrow  niche 
In  a  temple,  in  a  clime, 
Where,  for  long-forgotten  time, 
Still  had  reigned  Idolatry ; 
Where  it  proudly  claimed  the  knee 
Of  the  bondman  and  the  free. 
For  it,  reeked  a  million  slaughters, 
To  it,  knelt  the  Orient's  daughters. 
Mothers,  to  obtain  its  grace, 
To  it  prest  their  babe's  sweet  face. 
Fathers,  to  avert  its  evil, 
Gave  their  first  born  to  the  devil. 
Mournfully  I  look  upon  it, 
Thinking  of  the  waves  of  blood 
And  the  cruelties  that  won  it 
Name  of  Hell's  infernal  god. 
This  one  Idol  which  I  own  — 
"  Ha !  but  one  !  —  hast  thou  no  other  ?  " 
"  No."     "  Yet  stay  !  thy  bosom's  throne 
Haply  holds,  e'en  now,  its  brother. 
Ay,  a  legion  !  yet  more  hateful 
Than  the  idols  made  of  stone, 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  173 

Feared  and  worshipped,  though  unknown. 

Viler,  too,  their  incense  given, 

Than  the  sacrifice,  ungrateful, 

Which  from  pagans  smells  to  Heaven  ! " 


FOR  CHINA.* 

O  God  !  on  China  look ! 

And  wall  her  realm  about ; 
Nor  from  the  nation's  varied  book, 

Let  her  be  blotted  out. 

Oppose  the  western  power, 
To  which  the  empire  's  sold ; 

Whose  Lion  rages  to  devour, 
Whose  lust  is  still  for  gold. 


*  John  Q.  Adams  has  said  that  the  Opium  question  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  late  outrageous  attack  of  the  English  on  China.  Yet  had 
the  Chinese  continued  meekly  to  receive  the  drug,  the  war,  notwith- 
standing other  provocations,  would  probably  never  have  occurred. 
Immense  quantities  of  Opium  are  cultivated  in  India,  under  the  im- 
mediate direction  of  the  East  India  Company  ;  and  China  presents 
the  only  market  for  this  deleterious  article .'  This  is  the  key  to  the 
conduct  of  the  English  in  relation  to  the  Chinese. 


174  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


And  if  the  enslaving  drug 

Barbaric  heathen  hate, 
While  Christians  yet  the  fetter  hug, 

That  binds  them  to  their  fate  ; 

And  Christian  fleets  and  men 
Cloud  that  defenceless  coast ;  — 

O  God  of  battles !  thunder  then 
Upon  the  daring  host. 

And  bow  Britannia's  heart, 

In  this  unholy  war ; 
And  stain  her  flag,  and  bid  depart 

The  glories  of  her  star. 

Teach  her,  "  whose  flag  is  furled 
Never,"  on  land  or  sea, 
"  Whose  morning  drum  beats  round  the 
world  "  — 
A  Greater  rules  than  she  ! 

Then,  bring  the  Pagan  down, 
Where  all  the  world  must  meet ; 

The  monarch,  humbled  at  thy  crown  — 
The  people  at  thy  feet. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  175 


CHRISTIAN  FELLOWSHIP. 

WRITTEN   FOR    THE    VISIT    OF    A    CHURCH   AND 
SOCIETY   TO    THEIR   PASTOR. 


;;  Thus  to  the  Father  prayed  the  Son, 
One  may  they  be,  as  We  are  One  ; 
That  I  in  them,  and  Thou  in  Me, 
They,  one  with  Us,  may  ever  be." 


Thus  to  the  Father  in  our  day 
Let  his  disciples  meekly  pray, 
That,  in  their  need,  for  them  be  done 
All  that  was  wished  for  by  the  Son. 

In  their  rough  march  to  Zion's  hill, 
When  Love  is  cold  and  wrong  the  Will, 
And  every  pilgrim's  courage  faints, 
There 's  hope  in  Union  of  the  Saints. 

And  when  his  Zeal  revives,  and  Love 
Spurns  earth,  takes  wings,  and  soars  above, 
He  gains  new  strength,  if  he  impart 
His  victory  to  some  kindred  heart. 


176  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

This  blest  communion,  in  His  Name,  — 
In  every  Christian  breast  the  same,  — 
Gives  unction  to  our  joy,  as  we, 
Our  Pastor !  share  that  joy  with  thee  ; 

With  thee,  who  watched  this  tender  shoot, 
Till  budding,  ripening,  bursting  fruit 
Proclaims  the  plenty  of  his  sheaves, 
Who,  when  he  sows  in  tears,  believes  ! 


SEMI-CENTENNIAL  ANNIVEKSARY  OF  AN 
ORDINATION. 

O  Saviour  !  ere  on  radiant  wing, 

Enwrapt  in  clouds,  thou  took'st  thy  flight, 

To  re'assume,  as  Lord  and  King, 
The  throne  of  undisputed  right,  — 

Didst  thou  not  promise  to  the  few, 
Bereaved  of  Master  and  of  Friend, 

That,  on  their  fainting  hearts,  like  dew 
The  Spirit's  influence  should  descend ;  — 

And,  till  Time's  drama  close,  on  all 
By  Thee  commissioned  to  proclaim 

The  Church,  the  Bride's  celestial  call 
To  free  salvation  in  thy  Name  ? 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  177 

Then  hear  the  fervent  prayer,  this  hour, 
For  him  who  gave  the  sires  his  prayers ; 

And  led  the  children  by  the  power 
Of  wisdom,  found  with  hoary  hairs. 

For  has  he  not  that  influence  felt  — 
Thy  servant  —  counted  now  of  men 

A  patriarch  —  who  in  tears  has  knelt, 
And  waited  two-score  years  and  ten  ? 

Then  bless  thy  servant,  as  to-day, 

Though  not  like  Moses  veiled  from  sight  — 

He  takes  on  Pisgah  wide  survey, 
Of  toil  and  harvest,  shade  and  light 

And  sees  —  life's  wanderings  almost  o'er  — 
This  world 's  not  "  all  a  fleeting  show  " 

To  him  whose  faith  discerns  before, 
The  cloud  and  fiery  pillar's  glow. 

And  still  let  gladness  on  him  rest ; 

So  all  his  future  bright  shall  be, 
Till  gathered  where  the  pure  and  blest 

Find  an  Eternal  Now  in  Thee. 


12 


178  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


TO  THE  REV.  J —  P — ,  OF  BOSTON. 

"  No  father  or  mother  can  look  on  the  doctrine  of  the  Atonement, 
and  say  :  '  I  will  take  that  doctrine  into  my  family,  and  practise  upon 
it  as  a  parent.'  Could  there  be  found  a  monster  to  do  so,  he  would  he 
excluded  from  society." — From  Rev.  J.  PSs  Speech  at  the  Unitarian 
Convention  in  Providence,  R.  I.  Oct.  1843. 

My  brother  !  —  such  by  common  ties  — 
I  marvel  that  thy  tongue  of  flame, 

So  apt  for  truths  that  men  should  prize, 
So  bold  for  Freedom's  glorious  name, 

Could,  on  a  theme  above  them  all, 

Let  words  so  daring,  dreadful,  fall. 

The  voice  that  soothed  the  weary  mind, 
The  trumpet-tone  that  nerved  the  arm  — 

By  turns  impetuous,  scornful,  kind, 
To  crime  a  scourge,  to  sorrow  balm — 

Are  these  to  aid  the  wily  foe  ? 

From  thee  did  Truth  expect  the  blow  ? 

Yet,  if  indeed  the  lip  and  pen 

That  urged  so  high  the  spirit's  flight, 

Are  eager  now  the  hopes  of  men 

To  quench  in  depths  of  fearful  night — 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  179 

If  thou,  for  self,  wilt  choose  but  loss, 
Spurning  the  treasures  of  the  Cross,  — 

Keep  thou  the  way  of  song  and  flowers, 
That,  through  a  world  of  sin  and  blight, 

Leads  only  where  red  Sinai  lowers, 

Whose  lightnings  blast,  whose  thunders  fright ; 

At  Calvary  —  while  they  blaze  and  roll  — 

I  on  the  Atonement  stake  my  soul ! 


WHAT  HINDERS  ? 

What  hinders,  when,  to  bless  a  world  — 
I  asked  —  the  Spirit's  wing  is  nigh, 

That  Endless  Life  has  not  unfurled 
Its  symbol  o'er  the  doomed  to  die  ? 

Ye  send  your  servants  where  the  grain 
Is  ripe  and  nodding  to  its  fall, 

And  labor  may  the  harvest  gain, 
Most  plenteous,  for  the  Lord  of  all. 

What  hinders,  when  the  seed  is  sown, 
And  looks  the  watcher  for  the  shoot, 

The  field,  with  thistles  overgrown, 
Rewards  nor  care  nor  toil  with  fruit  ? 


180  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


O  Church  !  hast  thou  withheld  thy  store  ? 
The  Church,  with  blushes  thus  replied : 
"  My  gifts  are  small,  I  would  do  more 
For  His  dear  Name  who  for  me  died. 

"  While  journeying  up,  through  sorrow's  waste, 
To  Zion's  hill,  too  oft  her  eye 
Turns  from  its  glorious  goal,  to  taste 
Inferior  charms,  that  bloom  to  die. 

"  Yet  gold,  and  time,  and  talents,  cast 
(Unworthy)  in  His  treasury,  tell 
How  feels  the  Church  for  those  that  fast 
Are  girded  by  the  bands  of  hell. 

"  Speaks  yet  for  her  the  secret  plea 
Which  rises  to  the  ear  of  God, 
That  He  will  soon  '  declare  decree,' 
And  sway  the  world  with  gentle  rod. 

"  Speak,  too,  earth's  circumscribing  flames, 
That  kindle  and  each  other  meet, 
When  Christendom,  forgetting  names, 
Brings  incense  to  the  mercy-seat. 

"  At  what  a  price  she  fain  would  buy 
The  freedom  of  immortal  Mind, 
Let  that  unconscious,  bitter  sigh 
O'er  joys  for  ever  left  behind  — 


POETRY    OF    EIFE.  181 

"  Let  that  deep  feeling  which  denies 
Relief  in  tears  —  the  quivering  tip, 
The  one  long  glance  of  soul  and  eyes, 
Fixed  on  the  lessening  Mission  Ship,  — 


Which  tropic  sickness  wastes  away,  — 
Let  whispered  parting  words  proclaim  — 
Let  him  who  dies  with  pagans,  say  ! 

"  What  hinders,  then,  in  answer  made 

To  toils,  and  tears,  and  faith,  and  prayer, 
The  idol-realms  are  not  now  laid 

Before  Him  whose  of  right  they  are  ? 

"  Why  is  it  that  such  pearls  of  heaven 
Are  melted  in  the  promise-cup, 
If  to  the  offerer  is  not  given 

Assurance  that  they  're  garnered  up  ?  " 

And  Conscience  thundered  :  "  Yain  are  gifts 
Of  gold,  and  intellect,  and  prayer, 

Yes,  and  of  life,  if  He  who  sifts 

The  heart,  sees  not  His  image  there  ! " 


182  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


VIEWING  THE  SPIRE  OF  A  NEW  CHURCH. 

Cambridge  !  thou  hast  a  gentle  name, 

And  pleasantly  it  falls 
On  hearts  that  treasure  up  the  fame 

Of  Harvard's  ancient  halls. 

Yet  dearer  than  the  Muse's  seat, 

I  own  the  rising  shrine 
That  indicates  his  sure  retreat 

Who  flies  the  Southern  Line. 

Now  praise  to  Him  who  calls  up  friends — 

Sworn  foes  to  trade  in  blood  — 
To  build  where  Freedom's  Refuge  blends 

With  Altars  for  our  God  ! 

And  shame  to  him,  of  aspect  grave  — 

The  Levite  —  who,  in  pride, 
Peers  at  the  wounded,  weeping  slave, 

And  takes  "  the  other  side." 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  183 


YOU  ASKED,  I  REMEMBER 

You  asked,  I  remember,  if  those  that  have  flown 
To  the  regions  of  sunshine,  would  visit  again 
The  scenes  of  past  grief,  to  mortality  known, 
The  dream  of  anxiety,  chequered  with  pain  ? 

From  courts  of  the  skies  should  the  spotless  e'er  bend, 
And  delights,  once  endeared,  unimpassioned  descry — 
Is  there  aught  that  could  bid  the  wrapt  spirit  descend, 
Or  a  wish  rise  unbidden,  to  waken  the  sigh  ? 

If  so,  't  is  the  thought  of  that  innocent  bliss, 
The  sun-ray,  expanding  affection's  young  flower, 
Which,  caught  from  yon  region,  beams  brightly  on  this, 
And  to  Time  lends  the  hue  of  Eternity's  hour. 

If  so,  't  is  remembrance  of  love's  plighted  vow, 
The  sweets  of  communion,  once  ardent  and  true ; 
And  the  wish  that  those  veiled  in  mortality  now, 
Should  soar  disembodied,  and  friendship  renew. 


184  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  BRAHMUN  SUICIDE. 

On  the  way,  seeing  a  number  of  natives  passing  them  hastily,  and 
inquiring  the  cause,  they  were  told  that  a  Brahmun  had  drowned 
himself  under  the  pressure  of  pain  ;  upon  which  they  took  occasion 
to  point  out  the  wretched  condition  of  their  guides,  and  exhorted  them 
to  seek  the  grace  and  peace  of  God  in  their  hearts,  which  would  en- 
able them  patiently  to  endure  calamities.  Some  of  them  insinuated 
that  God  had  predestinated  the  Brahmun  to  his  miserable  end  ;  but 
the  missionaries  testified  that  God  was  not  the  author  of  evil,  but  was 
a  lover  of  our  temporal  and  eternal  happiness. — Memoirs  of  Rev.  C. 
F.  Swartz. 

Beautiful  are  the  feet  that  stand 
Of  heralds  on  the  heathen  land  ! 
Beautiful  on  the  distant  mountains, 
And  by  cool  and  gushing  fountains  ; 
Beautiful  by  the  river's  side, 
Where  heaves  the  idol  dome  in  pride, 
Where  is  stretched  the  Suicide  ! 
Beautiful  is  Humility, 
Underneath  the  banyan  tree, 
Warning  the  aged  devotee  ; 
Telling  the  young  of  a  Shepherd  nigh, 
Whose  arms  are  safe,  whose  fold  is  high ; 
Telling  the  poor  of  pearls  and  gems 
Seen  not  in  Earth's  diadems ; 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  185 

Telling  adorers  of  the  river, 
Many  floods  can  ne'er  deliver ; 
Gunga  cannot  save  the  soul, 
Jordan  only  maketh  whole. 
Telling  to  him  who  painfully  goes 
On  pilgrimage,  that  fleshly  woes 
Ne'er  atone  for  precept  broke  — 
Ne'er  release  from  Error's  yoke. 
Oh,  beyond  all  worldly  treasure, 
Oh,  beyond  all  worldly  pleasure, 
Is  an  errand  such  as  this ! 
Is  the  Missionary's  bliss  ! 
Heaven's  highest  seat  is  found 
For  him  who  toils  on  heathen  ground ! 
And  who  is  he  on  the  Indian  sands, 
That  like  a  heavenly  teacher  stands  ? 
Near  him  towers  the  Moslem's  mosque, 
And  Paganism's  proud  kiosk. 
O'er  him  blooms  the  scented  lime, 
And  the  noble  trees  of  the  eastern  clime, 
Sheltering  from  the  noon-day  glare  — 
And  see  !  what  gathered  crowds  are  there. 
The  listening  traveller  reins  his  steed, 
The  water-bearer  giveth  heed  ; 
Each  seeks  his  face  with  gaze  intense, 
As  if,  save  one,  was  locked  each  sense. 
Earnestly  seize  the  old  and  young 
"Words  that  drop  from  the  stranger's  tongue. 


186  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


And  who  is  he,  of  the  lifeless  form, 
With  drooping  limbs,  and  blood  yet  warm  ? 
They  've  raised  him  from  the  river's  bed, 
The  water-lily  round  his  head  — 
The  pulse  all  still,  the  spirit  fled  ! 
And  this  is  why  is  told  the  tale 
At  which  the  Hindoo's  cheek  is  pale. 
'T  is  of  one  who  fed  the  altar's  fire, 
And  walked  around  the  Suttee's  pyre, 
And  stood  before  his  god  of  stone, 
Blind  worshipper  of  the  Unknown. 
In  senseless  mysteries  bearing  part, 
Versed  in  the  Shaster  —  not  the  heart. 
Ay,  and  he  felt  a  void  within, 
That  waters  were  bootless  for  his  sin : 
Ay,  and  he  bowed  beneath  his  pain, 
And  rushed,  uncalled,  to  God  again !  — 
What  hell  can  burn  away  that  stain  ? 

Beautiful  are  the  feet  of  him 
Who  comes  with  voice  of  the  seraphim, 
Standing,  and  telling  of  a  balm  for  woes  — 
A  fount  for  the  leper,  that  ever  flows : 
A  Gilead  and  Physician  too, 
Which  Paganism  never  knew. 
And  teaching  that  relentless  Fate 
Doth  not  on  hapless  mortals  wait. 

Oh,  God  is  not  author  of  evil ;  his  love 
Share  the  dwellers  below  and  the  happy  above  ! 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  187 

Sweeter  than  airs  of  the  delicate  South, 

Is  pity  from  the  teacher's  mouth ! 

Sweeter  than  music  of  the  spheres, 

Which  the  errand  angel  hears, 

Are  tidings  that  fall  on  the  Pagan's  ears ! 

And  he  will  hear,  and  the  heart  will  melt, 

And  the  knee  shall  be  Christ's  that  to  devils  has 

knelt. 
And  meekness  he  '11  learn  from  this  deed  of  pride, 
And  life  from  the  Brahmun  Suicide  ! 


BIRTH  OF  DUELLING. 

Moloch  had  fallen,  and  Satan  wept 

To  see  his  shrines  alone ; 
His  rites  in  dark  oblivion  slept, 

And  worshipless  his  throne ; 
Around  him  thronged  the  peers  of  hell 

Intent  on  curst  debate, 
Yet  nought  could  Satan's  ire  dispel 

Or  soothe  the  monarch's  hate. 

Till  Belial,  a  tall  fiend,  arose, 
And  urfred  his  fell  design,  — • 
u  And  triumph,  Chief ! "  he  said,  "  thy  foes 
Shall  own  a  mightier  shrine ; 


POETRY   OP    LIFE. 


What  though  the  vale  of  Hinnom  boasts 

No  more  its  thousands  dead, 
And  Tophet  sees  no  more  its  hosts 

Through  fire  and  slaughter  led  ; 

"  On  Moloch's  ruin,  lo  !  appears 

A  new  descended  god, 
Whose  robe  is  gemmed  with  orphan's  tears, 

Whose  sceptre  reeks  with  blood ; 
Altars  shall  rise  in  every  clime 

To  this  divinity ; 
And  as  he  hastens,  hoary  Time 

Shall  untold  votaries  see." 

He  spake  ;  with  shouts  the  conclave  rang, 

Hell  trembled  with  acclaim ; 
"  A  god,  a  god  descends,"  they  sang, 

"  Let  Honor  be  his  name  !  " 
Columbia,  willing,  owns  his  sway, 

And  for  her  Proud  and  Brave, 
He  digs,  impatient  for  his  prey, 

The  Duellist's  cold  grave. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  189 


A  LATE  LOSS. 

He  is  not  dead !  O,  can  he  die, 
Who  quits  the  Earth  and  seeks  the  sky  ? 
Who,  prisoner  here,  his  prison  breaks, 
And  sickness,  death,  and  chain  forsakes  ? 

He  is  not  dead  !     O,  is  he  dead, 

Who,  hungering  here,  has  found  new  Bread  ? 

Who,  thirsting  in  the  weary  strife, 

Drinks  at  the  goal  Eternal  Life  ? 

He  is  not  dead,  who  wears  a  crown ; 
He  is  not  dead,  who  casts  it  down 
At  Jesus'  feet,  and  with  the  throng 
Swells  the  high  harp  and  victor  song ! 

Not  dead  !  though  here  his  voice  of  love 
No  longer  wins  to  worlds  above  ; 
Not  dead  !  though  here  Corruption  calls 
His  beauty  to  its  marble  halls. 

He  lives !  he  lives  !  and  only  he, 
Who  is  with  Christ,  and  still  shall  be. 
He  lives,  who  from  Sin's  thrall  has  fled ; 
We  feel  its  power ;  we  are  the  dead  ! 


190  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


LET  ME  DIE  AT  AN  INN. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn ;  I  'd  be  free 
In  the  day  of  departure  from  care  ; 

At  home,  't  would  be  busy  with  me, 

Abroad,  't  would  my  last  moments  spare. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn  ;  I  'd  not  know 
Of  tumult,  when  taking  that  sleep ; 

The  thoughts  that  of  Earth  had  let  go, 
Something  earthly  might  linger  to  keep. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn  ;  the  strong  calls 
Of  bliss  that  I  then  must  forsake, 

Old  comforts,  old  hearts,  and  old  halls, 
Retirement  might  weaken  or  break. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn ;  I  'd  not  see 
Friends  watch  the  inaudible  beat 

Of  a  bosom  whose  pulses  were  free  ; 
Nor  farewells  receive  and  repeat. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn ;  children,  wife, 
Away,  in  my  anguish  might  smile  ; 

This  heart  —  they  'd  not  know  of  its  strife  - 
Would  break ;  theirs  be  placid  the  while. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  191 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn  ;  I M  be  calm, 
When  fording  the  waters  of  death ; 

Eyes  keen,  to  discern  the  kind  Arm  — 
Ears  quick,  for  the  harmony's  breath. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn  ;  I  'd  bethink 
Me  of  what  I  've  forgotten  —  that  I 

Am  a  weed  on  eternity's  brink, 
Whose  business  is  only  to  die. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn ;  I  'd  deem  rather 

That  the  principle,  passing  away, 
Is  a  child  going  home  to  his  Father ; 

World  !  ask  not  the  sufferer  to  stay. 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn  ;  there  were  need 
Of  reflection,  repentance,  and  love, 

Unwonted  —  when  soon  to  be  freed 
From  chains,  to  take  garlands  above. 

I  must  die,  and  that  soon  ;  why  regret 
The  years  that  are  lost  in  the  flood, 

While  moments  of  mercy  may  yet 
Remain  to  prepare  me  for  God  ? 

I  must  die,  and  that  soon  ;  what  avails 

That  the  bark,  to  eternity  driven, 
Was  terribly  tost,  or  by  gales 

Of  favor  was  wafted  to  Heaven  ? 


192  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

I  must  die,  and  that  soon  ;  here,  my  grief 
And  trials  have  meaning  in  them ; 

In  my  coronal  there,  shall  the  chief 
Of  these  shine  the  goodliest  gem. 

I  must  die,  and  that  soon  ;  then,  if  so, 
My  spirit !  thou  'st  nought  to  prepare, 

And  art  waiting  the  summons  to  go, 
All  ready  —  what  matters  it  where  ? 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn  ;  in  my  nest ; 

In  solitude,  city,  on  sea  ; 
By  sickness,  in  health  —  't  will  be  best 

As  ordered,  my  Maker  !  by  Thee. 


THE  UNFRUITFUL. 

Why  on  this  Zion-hill 

Descends  no  kindly  rain  — 
Precept  on  precept  still 

Imparted,  and  in  vain  ? 
No  souls  these  walls  to  crowd, 
Like  doves,  or  as  a  cloud  ? 

Its  watchman  long  hath  toiled 

In  Christ,  his  Master's  name ; 
Yet  Error  is  not  foiled, 

Nor  Satan  put  to  shame. 


— _ 4 

POETRY   OF   LIFE.  193 


For  weary  years  the  stumbling  flock 
Have  blindly  missed  salvation's  Rock. 

With  tears  and  inward  strife 

And  agony  of  soul, 
He  's  wooed  the  dead  to  life, 

The  broken  to  be  whole. 
But  tears  and  prayers  and  pain 
Of  spirit,  have  been  vain. 

What  lacks  he  ?  love  ?  —  His  heart 
Beats  but  to  earnest  love  ; 

Power  ?  —  He  hath  the  art 
To  bring  heaven  from  above. 
No  wiser  lips  God's  word  hath  spoken, 
No  holier  hands  God's  bread  hath  broken. 

Listen  !  —  ere  vows  had  bound 

His  labors  to  his  spot, 
A  message  had  him  found 

Which  he  regarded  not : 
By  him  should  be  unfurled 
Peace  to  the  heathen  world! 

He  shunned  it.     On  this  hill 
No  dews  of  grace  descend ; 

'T  is  as  Gilboa  still, 

And  shall  be  till  his  end, 
Who  judgment  for  the  Jonah  sees, 
That  to  God's  will  preferred  his  ease. 

13 


194  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


I  AM  FOR  PEACE. 

Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 
Makes  countless  thousands  mourn. 

Robert  Burns. 

What's  in  the  warlike  waving  plume, 
Aoid  in  the  gorgeous  standard's  fold, 
That  beckon  on  to  envied  doom 
Or  glorious  victory  the  bold  ? 
What 's  in  the  brazen  trumpet's  bray 
And  in  the  spirit-stirring  fife 
And  thundering  drum,  that  call  away 
The  generous  to  the  deadly  strife  ? 

What  magic  's  in  old  Caesar's  name, 
Or  his  who  died  at  Babylon  — 
Or  his,  the  chief  of  modern  fame, 
Who  thrones,  like  counters,  lost  and  won  - 
Yea,  what 's  in  all  the  high  renown 
That  e'er  contending  legions  gained ; 
The  greenest  wreath,  the  proudest  crown, 
That  ever  poet  knew  or  feigned, 

Compared  with  all  the  certain  guilt 
On  murder  stamped  by  righteous  law, 
The  countless  tears,  the  rivers  spilt 
Of  blood,  the  crimes  and  woes  of  war  ? 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  195 

Compared  with  that  impetuous  tide 
Of  sin,  which  flows  in  dreadful  wrath  — 
The  hatred,  scorn,  and  poisonous  pride 
That  surely  follow  battle's  path  ? 

Oh  !  why  should  nations,  lifted  up 
By  Christian  privilege,  prepare 
For  sister  realms  the  bitter  cup, 
Whose  dregs  are  sorrow  and  despair ! 
At  empty  Honor's  larum  wake 
Force  that  for  Right  could  never  fail,  — 
For  fancied  insult,  vengeance  take, 
And  slaughter  on  a  "  glorious  "  scale ! 

Just  God  !  this  is  not  in  thy  plan  ; 
The  monstrous  dogma  's  not  from  Thee, 
That  what  is  wrong  from  man  to  man, 
In  governments  may  faultless  be. 
Thou  ever  dost  transgression  hate, 
In  highest,  as  in  humblest  place  ; 
Nor  will  its  penalty  abate 
From  parliament  or  populace. 

I  loathe  it  all !  and  when  I  see 
Gay,  gladsome  warriors  trooping  by, 
With  glancing  steel,  and  bravery 
Of  trump  and  drum,  I  can  but  sigh, 


196  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

That  men,  like  children,  ever  seem 
Still  pleased  and  flattered  with  a  straw  ; 
And  for  Fame's  splendid,  empty  dream, 
Will  court  the  crimes  and  curse  of  war. 


A  VOICE. 

A  Voice  from  Earth,  affrighted  — 

Earth  drinks  the  crimson  flood  ! 
'T  is  from  a  human  bosom, 

It  is  a  brother's  blood. 
A  Voice  that  calls  for  vengeance ! 

"  Revenge,  O  God !  the  slain, 
And  pour  thy  hottest  vial 

Upon  the  murderer,  Cain." 

A  Voice  of  blood,  where  Nature 

Has  veiled  her  earth  and  skies  — 
Where,  nailed  between  the  vilest, 

For  man,  the  Holiest,  dies. 
What  asketh  it  ?  —  most  sadly, 

In  Mercy's  music,  too  — 
It  cries,  "  Forgive  them,  Father, 

They  know  not  what  they  do ! " 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  197 


WHY  WEEPEST  THOU  ? 

Doth  gloomy  fate  with  sullen  frown 

Consume  thy  soul  with  care  ? 
Hast  thou  the  draught  of  misery  known 

Whose  dregs  are  dark  despair  ? 
Art  thou  oppressed  with  sorrow's  doom, 

Thy  heart  with  anguish  torn  ? 
O,  soon  that  sad  and  cheerless  gloom 

Shall  wake  a  brighter  morn. 
Then  why  should  sorrow  wring  thy  brow  ? 
Say,  mourner,  say,  "  why  weepest  thou  ?  " 

Doth  tender  love  bedeck  the  bier, 

Is  dust  with  dust  inurned  ? 
Has  one,  affection  prized  most  dear, 

To  heaven  and  God  returned  ? 
The  beauteous  flower  that  charms  the  eye, 

And  decks  the  smiling  plain, 
With  winter's  blast  will  fade  and  die, 

But  dies  to  bloom  again. 
Then  why  should  sorrow  wring  thy  brow  ? 
Say,  mourner,  say,  u  why  weepest  thou  ?  " 


198  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


STANZAS. 

Who  of  our  mortal  race  is  he, 

So  firmly  fixed  by  fortune's  power, 
That  from  the  shock  he  's  counted  free, 

Of  tossing  waves,  in  trouble's  hour  ? 
Let  him  still  clasp  his  fancied  bliss, 

And  look  defiance,  too,  on  care ; 
Not  heeding,  in  a  world  like  this, 

If  there  's  a  better  known,  or  where  — 

Such  am  not  I. 

Who  of  the  saints  that  ever  trod 

In  outward  sheen,  this  path  of  sin, 
That  never  felt  —  so  strong  in  God  — 

The  coward  weakness  full  within  ? 
Let  him  still  gaze  on  yon  clear  sky, 

As  if  his  mirror  there  he  sought ; 
And  challenge  Purity  to  spy, 

In  his  soul's  core,  one  careless  thought  — 

Such  dare  not  I. 

Yet,  if  there  's  one,  who  in  the  strength 

Of  worldiness,  is  weak  indeed, 
Who  finds  his  boasted  staff,  at  length, 

(Of  wise  resolves,)  a  broken  reed, 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  199 

And  from  the  midst  of  battle  calls  — 
While  his  own  goodness  sounds  retreat  — 

On  Mercy,  and  for  succor  falls, 
A  trembling  wretch,  at  Jesus'  feet  — 

Such,  Lord,  am  I ! 


THERE  ARE  YET  FLOWERS. 

There  are  yet  flowers  in  life's  wilderness 

That  fling  upon  the  air  a  sweet  perfume, 
And  with  the  charm  of  Eden-loveliness 

Soothe  man's  sojournings  to  the  quiet  tomb. 
None  live,  so  hopeless,  abject,  and  unknown 

As  nor  to  covet,  nor  to  gather  these. 
They  cluster  everywhere,  and  round  him  still 
Their  presence  throw,  who  seeks  to  be  alone. 

And  yet  their  sweets  no  witchery  have  to  please 
The  Proud,  that  careless  pluck  with  wanton  will. 
Fairest  of  lingerers  in  earth's  sunny  bowers : 

The  delicate,  not  found  amid  the  throng  — 
The  pleasant  solacers  of  hidden  hours  — 

Still,  still,  be  mine,  ye  Blossomings  of  Song ! 


200  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


WANDERING. 


u  Evangelist.  Art  thou  not  the  man  that  I  found  crying  without 
the  walls  of  the  city  of  Destruction  ? 

Christian.    Yes,  dear  sir,  I  am  the  man. 

Evangelist.  Did  not  I  direct  thee  in  the  way  to  the  little  wicket- 
gate? 

Christian.    Yes,  dear  sir. 

Evangelist.  How  is  it,  then,  that  thou  art  so  quickly  turned 
aside?"— Pilgrim's  Progress. 


Directed,  in  extremest  need, 
To  sure  Salvation's  only  way, 

'T  is  wise  to  walk  with  careful  heed, 
And  more  than  folly  thence  to  stray. 

As  guide,  the  steady  "  shining  light " 
The  preacher  of  the  gospel  shows  — 

A  star  upon  the  brow  of  night  — 
To  him  on  pilgrimage  who  goes. 

To  keep  it  ever  in  his  eye, 

Nor  lose  it  for  one  little  hour, 
Though  wayside  tempters  to  him  cry, 

Though  hell,  to  hinder,  brings  its  power, 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  201 

Is  duty,  and  insures  succ 

The  goal,  though  distant,  such  shall  win, 
And  reach — past  sorrow's  wilderness  — 

The  heavenly  gate,  and  enter  in. 

But  he  who  shuts  to  Truth  his  ears, 
Forgetting  Wisdom's  earnest  call  — 

And  wanders,  meets  the  woe  he  fears, 
And  wrecks  upon  one  error  all. 

If  Thou  hast  won  me  to  that  road, 
My  Saviour !  bid  me,  meekly,  bear 

Along  the  path,  such  trial-load 

As  Thou  deem'st  good — but  keep  me  there  ! 

Till,  safely  at  my  journey's  end, 

I  drop  with  life  my  burden  too, 
And  praise,  in  Endless  Life,  the  Friend 

Who  bore  my  griefs,  and  brought  me  through. 

Yet  wherefore,  spirit,  shouldst  thou  wait 
Till  past  from  weary  night  to  day  ? 

Sing  on  thy  march  to  Zion's  gate  ! 

'T  will  cheer  thee  on,  and  smooth  the  way. 


202  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


THERE 'S  REST  FOR  THE  WEARY. 

O  thou  that  hast  strayed  in  a  pathway  of  sorrow, 
Where  joy  is  a  stranger  and  peril  is  near  — 
With  regret  for  the  past  and  no  hope  for  the  morrow, 
The  sigh  thy  companion,  thy  solace  a  tear,  — 

Though  dark  thy  horizon,  no  star  of  day  cheering, 
Though  thy  way,  long  and  lonely,  no  pleasures  illume, 
Yet  in  faith  turn  thy  vision  to  solace  appearing, 
For  a  ray  of  tranquillity  shines  from  the  tomb. 

There 's  bliss  yet  in  store,  let  reflection  still  cheer  thee, 
There 's  rest  for  the  weary,  unfading  and  true  ; 
On  the  ocean  of  life,  though  the  billows  are  near  thee, 
Look  afar  where  the  haven  of  peace  is  in  view ! 

'T  is  free  from  the  tempest  that  here  has  long  shrouded 
Thy  day,  and  the  false  light  that  shone  to  decoy ; 
Its  waters  of  life  reflect  skies  still  unclouded, 
And  Jesus  the  Lamb  is  its  light  and  its  joy. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  203 


I  AM  NOT  WHAT  I  OUGHT  TO  BE. 

I  am  not  what  I  ought  to  be ;  — 

Imperfect,  changeful,  in  my  love ; 
My  Saviour,  make  me  more  like  Thee, 

And  fitter  for  my  home  above. 

I  am  not  what  I  wish  to  be  ; 

I  surely  choose  the  righteous  way, 
And  would  from  evil  thoughts  be  free, 

And  holier  grow  from  day  to  day. 

I  am  not  what  I  hope  to  be ; 

I  soon  shall  lay  this  body  down  ; 
And  in  my  perfect  spirit  see 

The  Wearer  of  Redemption's  crown. 

When  I  am  what  I  ought  to  be, 

And  what  I  wish  and  hope  to  win, 
I  '11  praise  the  Love,  that  followed  me 

Through  sloughs  and  sinks,  and  brought  me  in. 


204  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  ENDLESS  SIN. 

His  sin  he  forsakes,  whatever  it  be, 

When  his  summoned  soul  is  bid  to  flee ; 

He  cannot  debauch  in  hell,  nor  steal, 

Nor  in  the  drunkard's  revelry  reel ; 

Yet  one  remains,  when  filled  is  his  cup, 

The  oath  of  blasphemy  ever  goes  up ; 

Where  despair,  unwearied,  rings  its  knell, 

Is  mingled  the  curse  —  there  's  swearing  in  hell. 

There  are  creditors  here,  who  rivet  the  fetter, 
And  the  bond  will  have,  to  the  very  letter ; 
Nor  tears  avail  for  a  longer  day, 
But  there  's  sorer  woe  when  the  devil 's  to  pay. 
Our  Shylocks  to  him  are  angels  of  light ; 
His  knife  is  true,  and  he  grinds  it  bright ; 
The  debtor,  snared  in  his  cruel  mesh, 
Surrenders  the  soul  with  the  quivering  flesh. 

And  many  are  they  who,  not  for  gold, 
Salvation's  hope  have  foolishly  sold ; 
The  prince  who  swears  on  his  jewelled  throne, 
The  beggar  who  swears  on  his  dunghill,  alone, 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  205 

The  child,  who  lisps  the  imperfect  curse, 
The  hoary  sinner  —  something  worse  — 
Whose  tongue,  beneath  the  faultering  oath, 
With  infirmity  trembles,  nothing  loth. 

I  will  pray  at  morn,"  says  the  Psalmist ;  "  yea, 

At  noon  and  at  eve  I  will  fervently  pray !  " 

But  not  to  the  morning's  lovely  prime, 

Nor  to  golden  noon's  meridian  time, 

Near  when  evening  shadows  softly  fall, 

Is  confined  the  Swearers  busy  call ; 

He  swears  in  his  traffic,  and  swears  in  his  play, 

He  swears  by  night,  and  he  swears  by  day. 

He  serves  his  master,  and  serves  for  naught ; 
The  twig  is  not  limed  by  which  he  's  caught ; 
No  wages  hath  he  for  his  bootless  sin, 
No  bribe  is  too  mean  such  slave  to  win ; 
It  hath  for  its  trouble  no  relief ; 
Its  bliss,  if  any,  is  idle  and  brief; 
And  he,  of  the  filthy  scum  of  the  pit, 
Is  sorest  lashed  with  scorpion  wit. 

Well !  blister  your  lips,  and  your  heart,  if  you  like  ; 
Swear  at  the  Hand  that 's  lifted  to  strike ; 
Swear  at  the  sleepless  judgments  of  God, 
And  swear  at  the  Mercy  that  stays  the  rod : 


206  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

'T  is  the  alphabet  only  of  crime  that  you  're  learning, 
There  are  other  tasks  which,  your  Maker  spurning, 
He  '11  give  you  leisure  to  study  well ; 
For  the  damned  eternally  swear  in  hell. 


ALL  NIGHT  IN  PRAYER. 


uAnd  it  came  to  pass,  in  those  days,  that  he  -went  out  into  a 
mountain  to  pray,  and  continued  all  night  in  prayer  to  God." 

Luke  vi.  12. 


All  night  in  prayer,  while  mortals  slept, 
The  Saviour  woke  on  bended  knee, 
And,  in  the  mountain,  vigils  kept 
Of  sighs  and  tears,  my  soul,  for  thee. 

Night  spread  her  starry  wing  around 
His  head,  that  drooped  for  human  woe, 
And  hastening  angels  sought  the  ground, 
Wondering  to  see  their  Maker  so. 

He  prayed  —  yet  not  in  view  of  all 
The  griefs  his  prescience  understood  — 
The  stripes,  the  spear,  the  nails,  the  gall, 
The  crown  of  thorns,  the  cross  of  wood. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  207 

No,  nor  in  view  of  that  dark  hour 
When  God  from  him  should  turn  his  eye, 
And  hell's  permitted  final  power 
Should  triumph,  when  it  saw  him  die. 

But  sight  of  sin  and  sin's  desert 
Prest  down  his  soul,  and  sight  of  men 
Wounded  to  death,  and  to  their  hurt 
Rejecting  gilead,  grieved  him  then. 

0  Saviour !  in  Judea,  prayer 
Not  now  is  breathed  from  lips  of  thine ; 
That  mountain  is  the  robber's  lair,  — 
Its  clefts  reveal  the  Moslem's  shrine. 

Yet  here  thy  gentle  arm  infolds 
The  children  of  thy  wondrous  love ; 
And  present  here  is  He  who  holds 
My  wants  before  the  throne  above. 

All  night  in  prayer  !  —  my  joyful  sense 
Would  fain  thus  spend  the  wakeful  night ; 
Yet  oh !  where  Thou  art,  darkness  thence 
Flies,  and  with  me  't  is  more  than  light 


208  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


SONGS  FOR  ROMAN  CATHOLICS. 
I. 

WORSHIP  MARY  !  —  WORSHIP   CHRIST  ! 

"It  is  written,  Thou  shalt  worship  the  Lord  thy  God,  and  Hra 
only  shalt  thou  serve." — St.  Luke  iv.  8. 

"  0  !  't  is  a  sweet  and  lovely  sight 
To  see  a  band  of  children  gather, 
And  round  the  altar  all  in  -white, 
Bow,  angel-like,  to  God  their  Father. 

All  thoughts  subdued,  and  bridled  glee, 

Their  very  look  is  still  and  wary, 
As,  joining  in  the  Litany, 

They  breathe  the  holy  name  of  Mary." 

Roman  Catholic  Hymns — London  edition. 

O  !  rather,  bring  thy  sacred  songs 
To  Jesus  Christ,  thine  elder  Brother ; 

Nor  homage  that  to  him  belongs, 
Yield,  in  thy  folly,  to  another. 

For  why  should  Childhood's  pleasant  Voice, 
Whose  tones  great  Nature  makes  to  vary 

So  musically  sweet,  rejoice 
In  Litanies  to  Holy  Mary  ? 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  209 

Can  a  weak  woman,  whose  own  sin 
Required  the  wondrous  bath  of  healing, 

Thee  from  temptation's  sorcery  win  — 
Or  hear  in  Heaven  her  votary,  kneeling  ? 

Or  is  the  Virgin  Mother's  care 

Thy  daily  bounteous  table  spreading  ? 

Or  does  her^eye  detect  the  snare 

Screened  by  the  flowers  where  thou  art  treading  ? 

Will  her  ascended  spirit  bend 

From  battlements,  while  thou  art  sleeping, 
And  leave  high  service  to  attend 

The  helpless  child  whom  God  is  keeping  ? 

Or  will  she,  in  thy  dying  hour, 

Spread  o'er  thee  her  maternal  pinion, 

And  shield  thee  from  the  grave's  strong  power, 
And  bid  thee  shout  o'er  hell's  proud  minion  ? 

O  no  !  —  "  the  sweet  and  lovely  sight " 

Is  to  see  holy  children  gather  — 
Washed  in  the  Saviour's  crimson  white  — 

In  prayer  around  their  common  Father : 

To  breathe  His  name,  His  kindly  aid 

Invoke,  to  guide  where  footsteps  falter;  — 

Safe,  only  safe  when  foes  invade, 
In  Christ's  own  arms,  at  His  own  altar. 
14 


210  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


n. 

CAST   OUT   THE   BIBLE.* 

Cast  out  the  Bible  from  the  schools, 

"  Douay  "  and  "  James,"  of  which  they  prate, 

Nor  let  the  little  whimpering  fools  • 

Pore  over  precepts  that  we  hate. 

Has  not  the  troubling  page  of  God 
Forewarned  them  of  the  Antichrist  ? 
And  plainly  marked  the  path  of  blood 
We  take  to  power  and  gold,  unpriced  ? 

Has  not  the  Puritanic  pen 
In  lines  of  lightning  traced  our  doom  ? 
And  from  their  slumbers  startled  men 
Who  spurned  the  proffered  yoke  of  Kome  ? 

Too  long  by  covert  smiles  we  've  sought 
Our  steady  purpose  to  obtain  ; 
Bethink  ye  what  the  church  has  taught, 
And  boldly  strike,  if  ye  would  gain. 


*  The  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser  informs  us,  that  the  Ro- 
manists have  excluded  the  Bible  from  the  largest  of  the  District 
Schools  of  that  city.    1843. 


.- 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  211 

This  heritage  to  which  we  look, 
And  grapple  with  our  chains  of  steel, 
Shall  we  surrender  to  a  Book  ? 
No !  by  Saint  Peter's  key  and  seal. 

NO  !  NO  !  ten  thousand  faithful  shout ; 
Crusaders  !  be  the  Cross  unfurled 
From  home  and  school  to  cast  it  out, 
And  win  to  Rome  the  Western  World. 


m. 

THE   IDOL   MUSEUM. 

Come  hither,  thou 
Whose  heart  rejecteth  Wisdom's  voice  ! 

And  see  to  what  that  heart  will  bow, 
When  left  to  Folly's  choice. 

Come  hither,  thou 
Of  Gentile  feet,  for  Zion  shod, 

With  songs,  that  thy  wild  olive-bough 
Is  grafted  into  God. 

With  songs  that  Christ 
Shall  of  His  soul's  sore  travail  see ; 

And  kneeling  nations,  from  the  highest 
To  lowest,  His  will  be. 


>12  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


Enter !  —  thou  'It  meet 
Strange  fellowship  of  monstrous  sin ; 
Enter !  —  for  Papal,  Pagan  feet, 
By  proxy,  are  within. 

Come !  for  the  spoils 
Of  harlot  Rome  shall  meet  thy  view ; 
And  her  stern  Inquisition's  toils 
Of  fagot,  rack,  and  screw. 

Come  !  for  thine  eyes 
Shall  rest  on  Juggernaut,  whose  car 

Crushed  millions,  ere  from  Indian  skies 
Beamed  Bethlehem's  sacred  Star. 

Gaze  on! — for  this 
Is  Mary's  ring,  that  Bonner's  axe ; 
And  rosary,  to  count  and  kiss, 
And  cross  on  jewelled  pax.  * 

Thou  handiest  here 
The  war-club  from  the  Negro  land  ; 

And  Burmah's  Boodh,  and  Zealand's  spear, 
And  gods  of  Ceylon's  strand. 


*  Pax-A  piece  of  board,  having  the  image  of  Christ  upon  the 
Cross  on  it,  which  the  people,  before  the  Reformation,  used  to  kiss 
after  the  service  was  ended ;  that  ceremony  being  considered  as  the 

^ 1 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  213 

And  thou  mayst  dip 
Thy  fingers  in  this  holy  bowl, 

And  to  yon  image  touch  thy  lip 
With  aves  for  thy  soul. 

Enough  !  —  our  tears 
We  give  to  ignorance  and  sin  ; 

But  Guilt,  instructed,  causeth  fears 
That  hell  may  haply  win. 

Hell's  flag  unfurled 
From  Labrador  to  far  Japan, 

These  trophies  of  a  ruined  world 
Show  thee,  O  thoughtful  Man ! 

Thou  seest  press 
The  Pagan  load  —  nor  is  it  small ;  — 

But  o'er  her  crimes,  baptized,  confess 
That  Rome  outweighs  them  all. 

IV. 

THE  baptism  of  THE  BEL£. 

Come  !  baptize  the  bell ; 

First,  each  bosom  search, 
All  your  sins  expel  — 

Brin£  it  now  within  the  church. 


214  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


God-father  !   god-mother ! 

Vow  to  Holy  Dame : 
Wet  with  Cross,  sign  with  Chrism, 

In  the  Triune  Name. 

Father,  Son,  and  Spirit, 

For  thy  blessed  sake, 
May  it  grace  inherit 

Ne'er  to  break  ! 

Three  strokes  with  the  clapper  ! 

Three  strokes  by  the  priest ! 
God-father,  god-mother, 

Three  strokes  at  the  least ! 

Bell,  baptized,  at  its  sound 
Lurking  devils  fly  the  field ; 

Toll !  toll !  tortured  soul, 
Purgatory !  yield. 

When  its  silvery  music  soundeth 
Softly,  sadly,  on  the  ear, 

Burial,  bridal,  fast  or  festal, 
Holy  Mary,  hear ! 

Genuflexion,  now,  and  kiss  — 

Reverently  kneel ! 
Ave  Mary !  —kiss  the  bell ! 

Kiss  the  wheel ! 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  215 

V. 

PAPAL    WORSHIP. 

My  morning  song  shall  God  address, 
Whose  love  lay  round  me  all  the  night ; 

My  evening  hymn  will  duly  bless 

My  Shield  through  all  the  hours  of  light. 

Alone,  alone,  I  trust  in  Him  ; 

And  faith  assures  my  trust  is  right, 
As  well  when  doubts  my  prospects  dim, 

As  when  the  star  of  hope  is  bright. 

But  when  the  early  dewdrops  lie 

In  every  humble  floweret's  cup, 
Or  when  the  later  twilight  sky 

Gives  sign  to  shut  its  petals  up, 

Why  should  my  thanks,  from  Heaven  withheld, 

Be  murmured  at  an  idol  shrine 
To  some  ascetic  seer  of  eld, 

Or  merry  monk  of  modern  time  ? 

Or  when  in  depths  my  spirit  faints, 
Or,  rallying,  mounts  with  eagle  wing, 

Why  should  I  call  on  rotten  saints, 
Or  psalms  to  pickled  relics  sing  ? 


216  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Or  why,  when  faithless  man  deceives, 
To  Woman  lift  complaining  eye  ? 

Or  fondly  deem  that  who  receives 
Her  queenly  favor  wins  the  sky  ? 

"  Will  God,"  saith  one,  "  in  very  deed, 
In  temples  dwell  ?  "  —  I  ask,  will  He 
Take  pleasure  in  a  little  bead 
Doled  out  to  Him  on  rosary  ? 

Will  He  approve  the  kiss,  imprest 
On  marble  by  the  serfs  of  Rome  ? 

Or  water,  signed  on  face  and  breast, 
That  waters  never  lave  at  home. 

I  own  the  Pencil's  power  —  its  art 
To  keenly-wakened  sense  appeals ; 

But  will  He  bless  the  sensual  heart 
That  but  in  Raffaelle's  presence  feels  ? 

I  love  the  Chisel's  skill,  and  think 
Its  true  creations  all  unpriced  ; 

But  will  not  eastern  odors  stink, 
Burnt  only  to  a  sculptured  Christ  ? 

And  will  the  Omnipresent  Mind, 
Whose  seat  is  light,  whose  way  is  dark, 

By  trickish  mummers  be  confined 
To  pix,  or  alb,  or  stole,  or  ark  ? 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  217 

Or,  swallowed  in  the  ruby  wine  ? 

Or,  mixed  in  wafer,  sans  the  yeast, 
Thy  Saviour,  guilty  man,  and  mine ! 

Be  eaten,  weekly,  by  a  priest  ? 

My  sins  are  many ;  yet  if  saints 

In  glory  only  lessen  them, 
Exceeding  all  that  conscience  paints, 

Their  number  will  my  soul  o'erwhelm. 

My  sins  are  scarlet  —  and  yet  these 

I  cannot  to  the  Virgin  trust ; 
And  if  I  die,  unless  she  please 

As  snow  to  render  them,  I  must. 

Oh  !  why  should  man,  consulting  pride, 

Some  part  assume  of  folly's  cost, 
And  fear  to  trust  the  Crucified, 

Who  only  can  restore  the  lost  ? 

And  fear,  in  all  its  scope,  to  try 

The  love  that  welcomes  the  opprest ; 

And  rather  choose,  without,  to  die, 
Than  enter,  live,  and  be  at  rest ! 

That  Mercy  kindly  waits  to  win, 

Is  not  that  I  may  fall  the  more. 
While  Calvary  has  a  bath  for  sin 

Of  soundless  depths,  without  a  shore, 


218  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

I  '11  seek  its  streams  ;  yet  cannot  pay 

With  gold,  for  parchment  deeds  of  Heaven, 

But  will  on  Jesus'  title  stay  — 

Not  Peter's  —  to  be  much  forgiven. 

The  Saviour  in  His  passion  sighed ; 

He  asked  relief,  who  built  the  globe  ; 
But  for  it  to  His  Father  cried, 

And  not  to  Enoch,  Noah,  nor  Job. 

I  cannot,  though  but  nameless  dust, 

Invoke  a  Helper  less  than  his ; 
For  only  He  who  formed  me  first, 

From  first  to  last  my  Refuge  is. 

Go,  man  !  your  other  lords  address, 
And  cleave  to  falsehoods,  if  you  will : 

Jehovah  is  the  Name  I  bless, 
The  Triune  God  I  worship  still. 

Alone,  alone,  I  trust  in  Him ; 

And  Faith  assures  me  this  is  right, 
As  well  when  doubts  my  prospects  dim, 

As  when  the  star  of  hope  is  bright. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  219 

VI. 

NEW   ENGLAND    GIVEN    TO    ROME. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  a  Roman  Catholic  Church  has  heen  huilt  on 
Plymouth  Rock  ;  but  I  think  it  likely  they  will  yet  put  one  there."  — 
Rev.  Leonard  Bacon's  Speech  before  the  Foreign  Evangelical  Society, 
New  York,  May,  1843. 

Why  not  upon  the  Plymouth  Eock 
Erect  the  bloody  "  church  of  God," 

Whose  lordly  dome  may  swell,  and  mock 
The  humble  sires  below  the  sod  ? 

Why  not,  where  trembled  once  their  prayer, 
Let  clamorous  consecrated  bells    - 

Swing  heavily  upon  the  air, 

With  matins,  vespers,  bridals,  knells  ? 

Why  not  let  stupid  massmen  throng,  — 
Their  scores  of  feasts  and  fasts  to  keep  ; 

And  give  to  Mary  impious  song, 

Where  they  with  God  retired,  to  weep  ? 

Why  not  stretch  Charily  so  wide, 

Whose  sarment  is  of  robes  the  <rem  — 

That  monstrous  Papacy  may  hide 
Its  hell  of  guilt  beneath  the  hem  ? 


220  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Why  not  let  our  own  bones  and  flesh, 
The  children  of  our  faith  and  hope, 

Seek,  unreproved,  the  lying  mesh 

Wove  for  their  footsteps  by  the  Pope  ? 

And  what  forbiddeth  —  Rome 's  the  same  !  — 
With  us  her  dungeons,  pimps,  and  spies  ? 

And  Smithfield  fires  to  hiss  and  flame 
From  every  hill-top  to  the  skies  ? 

Sons  of  the  Pilgrims  !  long  has  lain 

The  bright  red  sword  of  Truth  in  rust ; 

Ope  your  dull  eyes  to  see  the  slain, 
Even  at  your  altars,  bite  the  dust. 

Too  late  !  —  your  speeches,  prayers,  may  not 
Avert,  one  hour,  the  righteous  doom : 

This  heritage,  once  yours  by  lot, 
God,  in  His  anger,  gives  to  Rome. 

vn. 

HYMN   TO   THE   VIRGIN. 

Virgin  of  all  virgins,  Mary ! 
Teach  our  solemn  hymn  to  vary 
Praises  worthy  Her  alone 
Who  is  worthy  Heaven's  throne. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  221 

Unction  give  us,  so  we  may 

To  the  Source  of  Unction  pray. 

Lo !  at  Mercy's  door  we  knock, 

Myrrh  and  spices  on  the  lock, 

Venerable,  spotless  One  ! 

Powerful  as  thy  Blessed  Son 

To  forgive  the  foulest  sin, 

Ope  the  Door,  and  let  us  in  ! 

Mother  of  Messiah,  hear  us  ! 

Mother  of  the  Maker,  hear  us ! 

Pearl  and  dewy  Rosebud,  hear  us ! 

Virgin  Mother  !  hear  us  !  hear  us  ! 

Tower  of  David,  Queen  of  Angels, 

Lauded  by  the  good  Evangels, 

Helper  be  and  Hope  and  Guide  ! 

Be  our  Pilot  on  the  tide  ! 

House  of  Ivory,  House  of  Gold, 

See  us  bleating  round  thy  fold, 

Scared  by  hungry  wolves  of  sin  ; 

Ope  the  Door,  and  let  us  in  ! 

Morning  Star  and  Gate  of  Heaven, 

Light  to  erring  mortals  given, 

Lead  where  Magi  went  before  ! 

Lead  us  to  the  Stable  Door  ! 

Mother  of  the  Builder,  God, 

If  we  pass  affliction's  rod, 
Aid  us,  save  us,  and  we  '11  bless  Thee  ! 
Comfort,  keep  us,  and  we  '11  bless  Thee ! 


222  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Virgin,  pure,  and  undented, 
If  thou  seest  thy  truant  child 
Folly  chase,  as  children  will, 
Seek  him,  find  him,  love  him  still ! 
Bring  the  sinner  to  thy  feet, 
Bring  him  to  the  Mercy-seat. 
If  the  dazzling  gold  is  ours, 
Let  not  gold  to  Virtue  blind  us ! 
If  we  trifle  mid  the  flowers, 
Let  the  thorn  of  Thee  remind  us  ! 
Hear  us  !  hear  us  !  hear  us  !  Mary ! 
Plead  with  Him  who  on  thy  knee 
Slept  and  wept  for  such  as  we  ! 
Plead  for  us,  whose  beads  are  worn  ! 
Plead  for  us,  whose  hearts  are  torn ! 
By  the  Wise  Men  from  afar, 
By  the  bright  and  herald  Star, 
By  the  three  hours'  Darkness  flung 
Over  pangs  from  Jesus  wrung, 
Plead  for  us  whose  beads  are  worn  ! 
Plead  for  us,  whose  hearts  are  torn  ! 
Who  in  bowl  of  holy  water, 
Free  to  every  son  and  daughter  — 
Dip  the  finger,  make  a  toss, 
Sign  on  brow  and  nose  the  Cross. 
By  the  Rosary  and  Altar, 
Lazarus'  shroud  and  Judas'  halter, 
By  Loretto's  flying  House, 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  223 

Relic  of  the  Plague  of  Louse, 
Moses'  rod  and  Joseph's  cup, 
Egypt's  darkness  bottled  up, 
By  the  Missal's  gilded  leaves, 
By  the  Holy  Coat  of  Treves, 
Keys  of  Peter,  head  of  Paul, 
Save  us  singly,  save  us-  all.  * 


*From  <:  Notes  of  a  Traveller." 
At  Rome,  the  worship  of  the  Virgin  is  most  assiduously  cultivated. 
Her  altar,  in  every  church,  is  the  most  thronged  with  votaries.  She 
gives  tender  audience  to  prayer,  and  makes  irresistible  intercession 
with  her  glorified  Son ;  she  sways  him  by  her  maternal  love ;  she 
constrains  him  by  her  maternal  authority.  All  the  treasures  of  lan- 
guage are  exhausted  in  search  of  epithets  to  exalt  and  dignify  her. 
She  is  called  daughter  of  the  eternal  Father,  mother  of  the  eternal 
Son,  spouse  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  temple  of  the  most  holy  Trinity,  queen 
of  the  world,  gate  of  heaven,  &c,  till  one  who  is  a  stranger  to  such 
language  feels  repulsed  and  driven  back  from  even  that  due  rever- 
ence which  every  devout  Christian  will  gladly  yield  to  her  whom  an 
angel  from  heaven  called  "  Blessed  among  Women." 


224  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


PITY  IN  WOMAN. 

Rich  is  the  drop  from  the  soft  lid  of  sorrow, 

When  Pity  no  more  its  emotions  can  hide ; 

'T  is  a  gem  which  the  trappings  of  splendor  would 

borrow,  — 
A  brilliant,  surpassing  the  symbols  of  pride. 

Dear  are  the  accents  that,  misery  disarming, 
Flow  out  in  music  and  thrill  through  the  soul ; 
Sweet  is  the  strain  which,  the  lone  bosom  charming, 
Bids  the  unhappy  admit  its  control. 

Bright  is  the  glance  of  Compassion  when  beaming, 
It  tells,  oh !  how  gladly !  it  hastes  to  relieve ; 
Purer  the  ray  than  when  Diana,  gleaming, 
Softly  alights  on  the  mantle  of  eve. 

O  Woman  !  when  Pity,  thy  bosom  possessing, 
Lends  radiance  to  beauty  and  charms  to  its  hue, 
Mortality  surely  is  crowned  with  its  blessing, 
Heaven's  last,  fairest  gift  is  revealed  to  the  view. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  225 


COME! 

When  God  his  wrathful  stores  called  out 

To  whelm  a  world  beneath  the  curse, 
'Mid  wild  uproar  and  thundering  shout 

Of  waters,  Mercy  whispered  thus : 
"  Come  thou,  until  the  overflow 

Of  this,  mine  anger,  passeth  by  :  " 
Secure,  Noah  tarried,  till  the  bow, 

Her  beauteous  token,  spanned  the  sky. 

And  when  again  the  cry  went  up 

From  earth,  accusing  to  the  throne  ; 
And  guilty  man  had  filled  his  cup, 

And  Sodom  must  be  overthrown : 
"  Come  ye,  my  people  ! "  in  that  hour 

The  voice  of  kind  alarum  rung ; 
And  Heaven  delayed  the  burning  shower, 

And  round  its  own  its  mantle  flung. 

In  latter  time,  Redemption's  plan, 

Conceived  ere  worlds  in  space  were  hung, 

Unfolded,  and  the  Son  of  Man 
Sojourned  a  ruined  race  among : 
15 


226  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

And  still  the  Incarnate  Teacher  cried, 

"  Come,  thirsty,  come  !  and  thirst  ye  never;1 

And  till  in  pangs  he  bowed  and  died, 
He  bade  men  come  and  live  for  ever. 

Now  speaketh  out  Jehovah's  love, 

In  tones  to  chide,  entreat,  alarm ; 
He  bids  the  wounded  Come,  and  prove 

How  kind  is  Gilead's  healing  balm. 
Of  all  the  injured  law  reveals, 

Or  gospel  woes,  is  this  the  sum : 
Jesus  for  sin  a  pardon  seals, 

The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say,  Come ! 


THE  YEAR 

Thou  unknown  fragment  of  that  scroll 
Whose  signet  was  ere  Time  began ; 

Ocean,  whose  waves  were  wont  to  roll 
Ere  God  from  nothing  fashioned  man,  — 

Whence  art  thou,  evanescent  Year  ? 

Atom !  declare,  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

Is  it,  perchance,  to  mock  awhile 

With  added  moments,  life's  poor  day  ? 

With  cheating  vision  to  beguile 

Man  that  appears  and  hastes  away  ? 


POETRY    OF   LIFE.  227 

Deceitful  tide !  thy  meteor  wave 
Buoys  him,  yet  bears  him  to  his  grave. 

Wilt  thou  not,  like  the  other  years 

That  were  before  thee,  disappear  ? 
Why  com'st  thou  with  thy  dreams  and  tears, 

Thy  burdens,  melancholy  Year  ? 
'T  is  fit  thou  too  shouldst  come  and  go, 
For  nought  unchanging  is  below. 

'T  is  fit  that  all  should  fade  and  die  ; 

Yea,  Ruin's  voice  shall  shake  the  spheres  : 
The  yellow  leaf  that  sails  on  high, 

The  weary  date  of  days  and  years, 
Alike  pass  on  and  are  forgot ; 
Once  here,  but  now  remembered  not. 

And  let  them  pass  ;  for  what  but  dust 
Are  wheeling  worlds,  and  what  are  we  ? 

Creatures,  from  frailty  formed  at  first, 
Yet  linked  to  an  eternity  : 

When  ruined  worlds  on  worlds  shall  roll 

Then  lives  the  disembodied  soul. 


228  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


YE  DEAD ! 


Ye  Dead !  ye  Dead  !  your  rest  is  sweet, 

From  dreamy  trouble  free  ; 
The  laboring  heart  forgets  to  beat 

Beneath  the  alder-tree : 
Oh !  gladly,  'neath  the  grassy  turf 

The  care-worn  would  recline ; 
Or  'neath  the  wave  where  fairy  hands 

Bedeck  the  lowly  shrine. 
Ye  Dead !  ye  Dead  !  he  comes !  he  comes ! 

And  he  that  woke  to  weep 
Shall  bosom  every  secret  ill 

Where  ye  long  vigils  keep. 


Ye  solitary  relics,  pent 

In  earth,  to  earth  a  prey ; 
Ye  voiceless  lips,  how  eloquent 

To  me  is  your  decay ! 
Oh !  sweet  the  consecrated  soil, 

Where  pilgrims  cease  to  roam, 
Where  fainting  mortals  end  their  toil, 

And  misery  finds  a  home ; 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  229 

And  sweet  the  couch  where  coral  wreaths, 

Deep  in  the  surging  brine, 
In  ocean's  dark  unfathomed  caves, 

The  sleeping  dust  entwine. 


Unwept,  they  sank  to  lasting  sleep, 

When  tempests  rode  the  cloud  ; 
Or  when  the  night-star  paled  the  deep, 

The  deep  became  their  shroud. 
Think  not  for  those  who  press  that  bed 

No  seemly  knell  is  rung ; 
Think  not  no  rites  embalm  the  dead, 

Nor  holy  hymn  is  sung. 
Heard  ye  not  on  the  midnight  wave, 

"When  whispered  anthems  stole  ? 
'T  was  o'er  the  sea-boy's  early  grave, 

A  requiem  for  his  soul. 


Dear  to  the  shipwrecked  is  the.  port 

Where,  on  a  stormless  sea, 
His  barque  rides  safe  from  every  gale, 

From  shoals  and  quicksands  free. 
Dear  to  the  wanderer  is  the  star 

That  points  his  doubtful  way, 
That  cheers  and  guides  him  when  afar 

His  faltering  footsteps  stray. 


230  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

And  dear  the  hour  when  I  this  head 

May  pillow  on  its  rest, 
When  I,  amid  the  thronging  dead, 

Shall  be  a  welcome  guest. 
Oh !  dear  to  me  that  last  repose, 

Where  I  this  wasting  form 
May  shelter  'neath  the  opening  rose, 

That  knows  no  wintry  storm. 


CHILDREN'S  HYMN  FOE  THE  FOURTH 
OF  JULY. 

O  Saviour  !  were  thine  arms  of  love 
Around  Judea's  children  thrown, 

When  thou  didst  say  that  such  above 
Thou  wouldst  before  thy  Father  own  ? 

Then  we,  to  seek  thy  face  to-day, 

In  simple  confidence  will  come ; 
And  where  thy  chosen  offspring  stay, 

The  Gentile,  too,  shall  find  a  home. 

Are  not  the  world's  rebukings  stilled, 
As  infant  lips  their  warblings  raise, 

And  Heaven  its  promise  sees  fulfilled, 
That  thou  from  babes  wilt  perfect  praise  ? 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  231 

Then  we  will  join  the  noble  strain, 

Heard  first  when  stars  their  courses  trod ; 

And  later,  on  the  Shepherd's  plain, 
Of  Peace  to  Man,  and  Praise  to  God. 

Oh  !  let  this  hour,  the  thundering  drum 
Proclaim  the  triumphs  of  the  Free  ; 

We  '11  sing,  away  from  tumult's  hum, 
The  peace  that  purely  flows  from  thee. 

From  Thee,  who  ledst  our  fathers'  bands, 
And  taught  their  arms  the  fight  to  win. 

Give  victory  to  the  children's  hands  ; 
Now  break  for  them  the  chains  of  sin  ! 

And  send  thy  light  and  send  thy  power 
And  love,  the  waking  world  abroad, 

Till  earth  resembles  Eden's  bower,  — 
A  second  garden  of  the  Lord. 


— # 

232  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


TO  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

"  I  was  once  in  hopes  that  my  own  country  would  precede  Tunis 
and  Algiers  in  abolishing  slavery,  and  carrying  out  free  principles ; 
but  it  appears  they  are  in  advance  of  the  United  States  in  this  par- 
ticular." 

Now  veil  your  "  stars  and  stripes,"  and  show 

O'er  mountain-peak  and  plain, 
And  where  your  ships  of  thunder  go, 

Your  symbols  —  Whip  and  Chain. 

For  stars  and  stripes  should  only  fly 
O'er  freemen's  homes  and  graves ; 

Your  splendid  flag 's  a  floating  lie  — 
Land  of  three  million  slaves ! 

And  from  your  archives  ever  blot 

The  Christian  nation's  name ; 
The  Christian  nation  ?  own  it  not, 

Or  own  it  to  your  shame. 

For  you  have  mocked  all  faith,  and  set  — 

To  your  enduring  loss  — 
The  Church  beneath  the  Minaret, 

The  Crescent  o'er  the  Cross. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  233 

And  in  the  deadly  war  betwixt 

The  False  and  True,  unpriced, 
Have  traitor  turned,  and  scandal  fixed 

Upon  the  name  of  Christ. 

Where  poise  the  scales  of  equal  link, 

Is  't  not  some  dreadful  dream 
To  see  the  fabling  Koran  sink, 

The  Bible  kick  the  beam  ? 

Barbaric  dungeons  Freedom's  song 

Send  out,  on  fetid  breath  ;  — 
Your  gales  of  paradise  prolong 

The  captive's  vail  of  death. 

"  There  is  a  tide  "  —  your  "  flood  "  has  passed ; 
The  gem  a  Christian  brow 
Should  wear,  you  've  madly  from  you  cast  — 
The  Moslem  has  it  now. 

Yes !  in  the  "World's  contending  race 

For  principle  that 's  free, 
Your  laggard  foot  has  second  place  — 

The  first  it  cannot  be. 

The  "  second  place  !  "  Oh,  no  !  the  lust 

Of  gold  has  wrought  your  fall ; 
Lead  on,  ye  pagan  nations  !  first  — 

My  country  last  of  all  ! 


234  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  EXILE. 

An  altar,  in  a  foreign  land, 

The  Hebrew  worshipper  may  raise  ; 
And  priest  and  viol,  harp  and  band 

Be  gathered  there  in  prayer  and  praise : 
And  glory  —  heaven-descended  beam  — 

May  wrap  the  place  where  buds  the  rod ; 
The  awful  ark,  itself,  may  seem 

The  dwelling  of  a  present  God. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  I  see  him  weep, 

And  hang  his  harp  upon  the  trees  ; 
His  hand  of  skill  forgets  to  sweep 

The  strings  to  "  Maschil "  or"  Degrees." 
By  that  strange  river,  thought  recalls 

Siloa,  and  the  blessed  hours 
Of  prayer,  within  Moriah's  walls ; 

Of  praise,  beneath  his  Zion-towers. 

For  Israel  is  an  Exile  still. 

How  can  the  Exile  render  thanks, 
Far  from  the  city,  temple,  hill  — 

By  Egypt's  Nile,  on  Chebar's  banks  ? 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  235 

Those  wandering  tribes,  that  fainting  priest  — 

They  are  not  Israel  here;  for  them 
No  home  is  like  the  glorious  East, 

Iso  city  like  Jerusalem. 

The  Christian  worshipper,  below, 

An  altar  rears  to  faith  above ; 
And  on  it  flames  his  zeal,  and  flow 

Around  it  streams  of  hope  and  love. 
And  sometimes  in  ascending  praise, 

And  sometimes  in  prevailing  prayer, 
Glory,  most  sweet  and  awful,  plays 

About  him,  as  if  God  were  there. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  I  see  his  tears,  — 

In  Kedar's  tents  constrained  to  dwell  — 
What  trials,  toils,  temptations,  fears ! 

The  end  !  the  end!  —  oh !  who  may  tell  ? 
And  e'en  if  rainbow-hope  returns, 

Thought  climbs  its  arch,  and  seeks  the  gates 
Within,  where  purer  worship  burns, 

Where  holier  hymn  the  pilgrim  waits. 

For  he  is  banished  from  his  love ; 

And  he,  an  Exile,  wanders  long ; 
And  pants  for  sacrifice  above,  — 

The  Priest,  the  altar,  joy  and  song. 


236  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

Yet  shout,  my  soul,  for  prospects  given, 
A  Saviour,  Temple,  Diadem; — 

No  home  is  like  the  glorious  Heaven  ; 
No  city  like  Jerusalem ! 


THE  SOUL  RELEASED  FROM  FEEBLE 
CLAY. 

The  soul,  released  from  feeble  clay, 
Drinks  at  the  fount  of  living  day ; 
She  bathes  in  happiness  above, 
Inflamed  with  holy,  quenchless  love. 
The  pleasures  that  each  sense  refine, 
Spring  from  the  source  of  joy  divine ; 
Their  zest,  fruition  ne'er  can  pall ; 
'T  is  lasting  as  the  all  in  all. 

Come  then,  O  pleasing,  awful  hour ! 
That  frees  me  from  each  slavish  power. 
Thou  Comforter !  calm  every  fear. 
Saviour !  wipe  every  trembling  tear. 
Some  sister  angel  hover  nigh, 
Compose  my  couch,  receive  the  sigh, 
And  sweetly  whispering,  Soul !  be  free  — 
Bear  me  away,  my  God !  to  Thee. 


POETRY   OF    LITE.  237 


OPIUM.* 

Pause  not  here,  ye  generous  men  ! 

One  is  vanquished ;  yet  the  foe, 
Hydra-headed,  lives  again ; 

Deal  again  the  righteous  blow. 

Though  a  thousand  Stills  are  dumb, 
Though  ten  thousand  are  reclaimed, 

Though  the  advocate  of  Rum 

Slinks  from  truth,  convinced,  ashamed,  • 

Though  the  weeping,  joyful  wife 
To  her  woman's  love  has  prest 

Him,  the  dead,  restored  to  life, 

Though  the  poor  man's  home  is  blest,  — 

Though  around  the  rich  man's  board 
Tempting  cups  no  longer  shine, 

Whence  in  ceaseless  streams  is  poured 
Sparkling  and  deceiving  wine,  — 


*  At  a  recent  medical  temperance  meeting  held  in  New  York,  a 
physician  presented  statistics,  by  which  it  appears,  that  there  are  at 
least  between  3,000  and  5,000  persons  in  the  city  of  New  York,  who 
habitually  use  Opium  in  substance,  or  some  of  its  preparations. — New 
York  Evangelist. 


238  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Yet  the  labor  is  not  done ; 

Up  !  and  toil,  and  pray,  and  plan. 
From  the  regions  of  the  sun, 

From  the  wily  Musselman, 

Comes  the  deleterious  drug, 
Subtler  than  the  Upas  tree  ; 

Deadlier  than  the  murderous  Thug,  * 
Famine,  Fire,  and  Slaughter  be. 

Shall  we  entertain  the  thief, 
That  beguiles  us  with  a  dream, 

Causing  earth's  retreat  of  grief 
Folly's  paradise  to  seem  ? 

To  our  fireside  joys  admit 

One  that  surely  poisons  bliss  ? 

Clasp  a  serpent  of  the  pit, 

Feel  his  sting  and  hear  his  hiss  ? 

We,  of  many  a  glorious  hill, 

Sacred  valley,  stream,  and  plain, 

Meekly  own  a  Master's  will, 
Who  the  Ottoman  has  slain  ? 


*  Thugs,  a  tribe  of  murderers  lately  discovered  in  India. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  239 

We,  of  that  delivered  land, 

Which  for  Temperance  rose  as  one, 

When  her  millions  took  in  hand 
Effort,  and  the  work  was  done  ? 

Let  the  heathen  teach  us  !  let 

Patriotic,  fearless  Lrx  * 
Show  us  how  by  man  is  met 

Man-destroying,  fatal  sin. 

See  his  nation  vexed  and  sold 

By  the  followers  of  Christ !  f 
Mind,  the  dupe  of  British  gold,  $ 

Mind,  unpurchased  and  unpriced, 


*  A  noble-minded  pagan,  who  has  labored  to  banish  this  destroyer 
from  his  country. 

t  "  Why  do  Christians  bring  us  opium,  and  bring  it  directly  in 
defiance  of  our  laws  ?  That  vile  drug  has  poisoned  my  son,  ruined 
my  brother,  and  well  nigh  led  me  to  beggar  my  wife  and  children. 
You  cannot  wish  me  well  —  your  religion  cannot  be  better  than  mine. 
Go  first  and  persuade  your  own  countrymen  to  relinquish  this  nefa- 
rious traffic,  and  then  I  will  listen  to  your  instructions  on  the  subject 
of  Christianity.1' — Remonstrance  of  a  Chinese. 

t  "  The  opium-trade  is  the  child  of  the  East  India  Company's  adop- 
tion. They  have  employed  all  the  resources  of  science,  wealth,  and 
unlimited  power,  to  force  it  to  its  present  height ;  and  they  have  pros- 
tituted the  means  of  government  to  an  unlawful  end." 


240  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Shall  not  always  lie  in  shame ; 

Mind  —  below  base  matter  trod  — 
Will  at  length  assert  its  claim  ; 

Mind  alone  proceeds  from  God. 

China  from  her  slumber  wakes  !  — 
British  Christians  freely  scoff;  — 

China,  strong  in  virtue,  breaks 
Hell's  infernal  fetter  off. 

Which  the  "  Christian  "  nation  ?  —  say ; 

She  that  shackles  gives  for  gain, 
Or  the  land  that  doth  obey 

Virtue's  call  to  snap  the  chain  ? 

Sound  the  trumpet !  sound  alarm  ! 

Who,  that  dug  his  tyrant's  grave, 
Will,  subdued  by  sensual  charm, 

Be  another's  viler  slave ! 


acts  m. 

He  lay  beside  the  temple's  gate, 
Beside  the  Beautiful  he  lay, 

The  lame  man,  for  an  alms  to  wait 
From  those  who  passed  that  way. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  241 

Gold  to  his  need  was  given,  yet  vain 

It  was  he  looked  for  healing  aid ; 
And  still  the  morning  saw  again 

Him  at  that  portal  laid. 

Till  the  Apostles  thither  came ; 

And  wherefore  came  these  bold  ones  there  ? 
To  seek,  in  the  Redeemer's  name, 

The  fellowship  of  prayer. 

"  Rise  up  and  walk ! "  they  said  ;  and,  healed, 
The  lame  man  leaped  and  walked  abroad ; 
For  in  that  mandate  was  revealed 
Power  from  the  Son  of  God. 

Thus  have  I  lain,  and,  at  the  door, 
Thus  asked  vain  alms  of  all  beside : 

Repenting,  I  '11  His  aid  implore, 
Who  for  my  sin  hath  died. 

And  oh  !  upon  my  waiting  ear, 
What  mellow  music  seems  to  roll  ? 

My  spirit,  whither  flies  thy  fear, 
When  Jesus  says,  "  Be  whole  !" 


16 


242  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


MERCY  AND  WRATH. 

"  Shouldst  thou  behold  my  face,  the  sight 
Thy  mortal  sense  could  not  sustain  ; 
My  Mercy,  terrible  and  bright, 

Destroys  him  who  the  view  would  gain." 

So  spake  to  wondering  Moses,  God, 

On  Sinai's  pinnacle  of  flame  ; 
When  Deity  its  precincts  trod, 

When  thunders  told  Jehovah's  Name. 

And  can  you,  Sinner,  hope  to  bear 
The  eyes  that  look  creation  through, 

When,  borne  on  judgment-clouds  in  air, 
He  turns  those  eyes  of  wrath  on  you  ? 

Go,  seek  the  Cross  !  and  crucify 
The  pride  that  curses  rebel  men ; 

That  when  "  He  comes  with  clouds,"  your  eye 
May  meet  His  gaze  of  mercy  then. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  243 


HYMN  ON  PUEITY. 

Oh,  glorious  Thou  !  thy  throne  of  power 
Could  not  remain  one  single  hour, 
Were  not  its  deep  foundations  laid 
On  laws  of  holiness,  obeyed. 

The  heavens  that  look  upon  this  globe, 
The  stars  that  glitter  on  their  robe, 
Yea,  the  battalions,  blest  and  bright, 
Of  God,  are  spotted  in  his  sight. 

What,  then,  is  man,  who  drinks  up  sin  ? 
All  stains  without,  all  wounds  within  — 
Whose  guilt  embitters  every  stream 
That,  as  it  shines,  should  blessings  beam. 

Oh !  from  the  tree  that  shadows  heaven, 
Let  some  benignant  branch  be  given ;  — 
At  Marah  be  again  revealed, 
And,  Lord  !  the  fountain  shall  be  healed. 


244  POETRY  OF   LIFE. 


THE  ELEVENTH  HOUR. 

ILLUSTRATING  A   PICTURE   OF   A   DEATHBED. 

Was  it  that  I  shunned  repose, 

Sat  up  late,  and  early  rose, 

Ate  the  bread  of  carefulness, 

And  denied  rny  soul  each  good 

With  which  Heaven  is  wont  to  bless,  — 

In  my  raiment,  in  my  food, 

In  my  labors,  in  my  pleasures, 

Studying  to  increase  my  treasures  ; 

Stranger  unto  pleasant  mirth, 

Stranger  unto  all  that  earth 

Deems  most  innocent,  that  I 

Must  o'er  disappointment  sigh  ? 

Why  did  boundless  Fancy  wander  — 

Why  did  halcyon  Hope  beyond  her- 

Go,  in  hourly  dreams  of  gold  ? 

Was  it  that  I  might  be  sold 

Unto  keen  Remorse  —  the  sting, 

Never-dying,  of  the  heart, 

In  which  Grace  hath  never  part ! 

Far  beyond  the  enchanting  cup 

That  gay  Pleasure  mixes  up  — 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  245 

Far  beyond  Ambition's  bliss, 
Purchased  from  a  world  like  this,  — 
By  the  lost  in  folly's  whirl, 
"Who  for  baubles  gives  the  pearl 
Of  the  never-sated  spirit  — 
Yes,  beyond  all,  to  inherit 
Bliss,  I  thought  was  surely  mine, 
When  I  knelt  at  Mammon's  shrine, 
And  with  still,  mysterious  stealth, 
Gazed  upon  the  heaped-up  wealth  — 
Gloated  on  the  golden  pile 
"With  a  stern  and  secret  smile. 
Mighty  were  my  schemings  ;  then 
"Was  I  mightiest  of  men. 
Promising  my  morning :  soon 
Came  a  cloud,  and  at  my  noon 
Fate  was  in  conspiracy 
To  shroud  o'er  my  evening  sky. 
Quickly  was  I  called  away 
From  those  visions  of  delight, 
To  behold  their  dire  decay, 
To  behold  the  winter's  blight 
Seizing  on  my  blossom  ;  —  God  ! 
Thou  didst  hold  an  angry  rod. 
Well  I  knew  thy  power  was  such, 
Joy  comes  springing  at  thy  touch  ; 
Well  I  knew  thou  couldst  destroy, 
When  I  saw  my  smitten  hoy  ! 


246  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Hovering  o'er  my  dying  bed 

Ghosts  of  murdered  moments  stand  ; 

Every  soothing  angel  fled  ; 

Who  will  chase  the  hateful  band  ! 

Thou  that  minist'rest  to  care, 

Temporal  —  canst  thou  hush  despair  ? 

Thou,  that  heal'st  the  body's  pain, 

Canst  thou  charm  back  peace  again  ? 

Thou,  that  holy  text  doth  bring,     • 

Canst  thou  stop  the  spirit's  wing ! 

All  that  can  the  soul  concern, 

Of  that  onward,  dread  eterne  — 

All  that  can  harass,  alarm, 

All  that  may  death's  sting  disarm, 

All  that  God  to  man  hath  given 

Of  the  unrevealed  heaven  ; 

All  of  earth's  deceiving  schemes, 

All  that  realizes  dreams 

Of  infernal  horror  —  all 

Of  that  unnamed,  bitter  thrall  — 

Memory  wakened,  conscience  smarting, 

All  that  waits  the  mind,  departing 

To  the  mind's  appalling  doom, 

To  its  ever-living  tomb,  — 

All  of  wasted  life  that 's  past, 

All  the  future,  at  the  last 

Gathering  in  a  fearful  might,  — 

All  of  everlasting  night, 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  247 

All  of  tortured  body's  ill, 

All  of  unsubdued  will, 

All  that  was  and  is  to  be, 

All  of  vast  Eternity, 

With  an  overwhelming  power, 

Crowded  in  the  eleventh  hour  ! 


WHICH  ? 

The  sinner  says  :   "  Let  Evil  rule ;  " 

Nor  doth  his  heart  rebel 
To  see  the  Devil's  purpose  done 

On  earth,  as  done  in  hell. 

The  Christian  prays :  "  Let  God  prevail ; 

To  Him  be  honor  given ; 
And  be  His  perfect  will  obeyed 

On  earth,  as  't  is  in  heaven." 

One  of  these  prayers,  O  man !  is  thine  ; 

Thy  body  to  tliQ  sod  — 
Sink,  Spirit !  to  thy  downward  choice, 

Or  upward  rise  to  God ! 


248  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


HYMN 

WRITTEN  FOR   A   DEDICATION. 

What  title  write  ye,  Builders, 

Upon  this  labor  done  ? 
And  whose  these  walls  of  beauty, 

With  shaft  that  seeks  the  sun  ? 
Why  cluster  Age  and  Manhood, 

And  meek-eyed  Woman  here  ?  — 
They,  with  their  smiles  and  praises  ; 

She,  with  the  silent  tear  ? 

These  comely  walls  are  Zion's, 

Whence  Zion's  banners  wave ; 
This  arrowy  shaft  is  Freedom's, 

A  symbol  for  the  Slave. 
And  these,  the  fair,  free  altars 

Man-stealers  may  not  touch, 
Nor  he  that  holds  in  bondage,  — 

We  rear  them  not  for  such. 

Nor  in  Baptismal  waters, 

Nor  at  the  Eucharist, 
Hath  part  the  foaming  wine-cup's 

Forlorn  apologist. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  249 

For  Freedom,  Temperance,  Virtue, 

For  God  —  we  struck  the  spade ; 

"  Grace  !  "  "  Grace  ! "  we  shout  unto  it, 

The  copestone  Grace  hath  laid. 

Faith  wings  the  supplication, 

O  Paraclete  !  the  Dove  ! 
That  thou  upon  our  labor 

Wilt  seal  Thy  name  of  Love. 
We  —  fervently  replying  — 

In  lines  of  living  fire, 
Write,  "Holiness  to  Heaven  !" 

From  corner-stone  to  spire. 

So  shall  these  walls  of  beauty, 

With  shaft  that  seeks  the  sun, 
Be  place  of  earnest  worship, 

Till  earthly  worship's  done. 
And  now,  come  to  thy  Temple, 

And  fold  us  with  thy  wing, 
And  praises,  Lord  !  Salvator ! 

Shall  leap  from  heart  and  string. 


250  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


THE  MANIAC. 

Those  eyes  that  beam  with  morning  light, 
And  all  the  heaven  within  declare, 

May  set  ere  long  in  starless  night, 
Or  kindle  with  demoniac  glare. 

The  thrilling  voice,  oft  heard  to  bless, 
"Whose  accents  memory  would  prolong, 

May  tell  the  story  of  distress, 
Or  warble  sorrow's  broken  song. 

That  heart  where  feeling  holds  its  throne, 
Which  fondly  beats  to  love  and  me, 

Cold  as  the  unsunned  marble  stone, 
May  lie  in  frigid  apathy. 

Lord  of  all  good !  thy  fiat  spake 
To  birth  the  blessings  that  I  have  ; 

Lord  of  all  worlds  !  't  is  thou  canst  take 
Again  the  boon  that  mercy  gave : 

Take  all,  but  hear  my  earnest  prayer, 
'T  is  breathed  in  tears,  reject  it  not, — 

Take  all  —  but  let  me  never  share 
The  hopeless,  soulless  Maniac's  lot ! 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  251 


TO  WHOM  SHALL  WE  GO  BUT  TO  THEE? 

When  rankling  sorrows  wound  the  soul, 

And  cares  invade  the  breast, 
And  distant  seems  the  blissful  goal 

Of  peace  and  lasting  rest,  — 

Where  shall  the  mourning  wanderer  go, 

And  where  the  sufferer  fly  ? 
What  balm  can  heal  his  bosom's  woe, 

Whose  hand  his  tears  can  dry  ? 

Say,  shall  he  seek  in  empty  fame 

A  cure  for  bitter  care  ? 
Can  echoed  praise  or  honor's  name 

Beguile  the  soul's  despair  ? 

Will  grandeur,  with  its  dazzling  lure, 

Bestow  a  kind  relief ; 
Can  pageant  pomp  and  pride  ensure 

A  medicine  for  grief  *? 

Doth  pleasure  with  bewitching  guile, 

Invite  him  to  her  arms  ? 
Too  soon  he  finds  the  glance  and  smile 

Are  but  deceitful  charms. 


252  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Where  shall  the  mourning  wanderer  go, 
Oh  !  where  the  sufferer  fly  ? 

What  balm  can  heal  his  bosom's  woe, 
Whose  hand  his  tears  can  dry  ? 

Blest  Saviour  !  't  is  alone  to  Thee, 
He  flies  with  anguish  prest; 

And  thou  the  captive  soul  wilt  free, 
And  give  the  weary  rest. 


NO  REST. 

"  No  Rest  shall  be  to  guilty  man  !  " 

From  Eden  thundered  thus  the  Lord. 
And  on  its  bowers  He  cast  the  ban, 
And  planted  o'er  its  gates  the  sword. 

No  Rest  the  hapless  wanderer  found, 
And  none  has  found  of  Adam  born ; 

Where'er  he  toils  is  rugged  ground, 
Where'er  he  rests  is  felt  the  thorn. 

No  Rest  from  disappointment's  pang, 
No  Rest  in  full  fruition's  arms,  — 

No  Rest  for  mustering  passion's  clang, 
From  folly's  trump  and  sin's  alarms. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  253 

No  Rest  from  weary  wasting  pains. 

The  failing  body  breeds  decay ; 
And  Nature  of  herself  complains, 

And  longs  for  wings  to  soar  away. 

No  Rest  from  the  devouring  grave ;  — 
There  'a  dust  on  many  a  lordly  brow ; 

How  trite,  that  "  naught  from  death  can  save" — 
That  "  youth  and  age  and  strength  must  bow ! " 

If  thus  Earth's  offerer  sadly  feels 

The  ground  uncertain  'neath  his  feet, 

And  these  false  altars  where  he  kneels 
Can  give  from  sorrow  no  retreat ; 

How  may  the  world,  0  Christian !  yield 

A  cordial  for  thy  wounded  breast, 
Or  interpose  effectual  shield 

Between  thyself  and  cares,  unblest  ? 

From  these  thou  mayst  deliverance  find, 

Deliverance  that  Religion  gives ; 
Yet  here  's  no  Rest  ('t  is  not  unkind) 

For  him  who  to  his  Maker  lives. 

The  moment  thou  didst  take  His  yoke, 

A  laborer  for  thy  Lord  to  be,  — 
His  strong  commandment  to  thee  spoke  : 

"  Arise !  no  Rest  is  here  for  thee ! " 


254  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


No  Rest  to  watching  o'er  thy  sin  ! 

To  slay  pride,  passion,  ease,  and  lust, 
Thou  must  each  hour  the  fight  begin ; 

They  droop,  but  do  not  bite  the  dust. 

No  Rest  to  persevering  prayer ! 

All  night  the  patriarch  strove  with  God, 
And  who  would  Israel's  blessings  share 

Must  tread  the  path  that  Jacob  trod. 

No  Rest  to  toil  for  souls  undone  ! 

Lo  !  while  thou  faintest,  millions  die ; 
Day  hastens  —  work  before  thy  sun 

Rides  downward  to  the  evening  sky. 

No  Rest  to  gain  in  holiness  ! 

We  press  through  briers  to  the  goal, 
Yet  once  beyond  life's  wilderness, 

And  true  perfection  crowns  the  soul. 

Lord  God  Almighty !  give  Thy  grace 
To  quicken  every  sluggish  frame  ; 

In  Heaven  they  nearest  see  Thy  face 
Who  most  on  earth  exalt  Thy  name. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  255 


BRITISH  SEIZURE  OF  THE  SAXDWICH 
ISLAXDS.  * 

Great  Britain  !  down  thy  hungry  gorge 
Wouldst  thou  these  lovely  islands  cram  ? 

Or  refuge  offers  them  Saint  George, 
As  lion  offers  to  the  lamb  ? 

Wouldst  take  them  in  thy  warm  embrace, 
And  kindly  stab  them  in  the  side, 

As  thou  the  glorious,  abject  race 
Of  Erin,  smitest  in  thy  pride  ? 

Or  with  vast  India,  grind  to  dust 

These  dots  o'er  which  thy  flag  's  unfurled, 

Yet  more  to  make  thy  name  of  lust 
Abhorred  by  an  indignant  world  ? 

TJiou  art  too  late  !  a  higher  crown 
Hath  thee  forestalled,  to  certain  loss, 

And  king  and  priesthood  have  lain  down 
Their  soil  and  seas  before  the  Cross. 

*  These  verses  are  believed  to  be  the  expression  of  a  feeling,  uni- 
versal in  our  land,  when  the  tidings  of  this  outrage  broke  upon  us. 
The  disavowal  and  rectification  of  the  wrong  by  the  British  Govern- 
ment have  since  become  matters  of  pleasanter  history. 


256  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

A  flag  of  fairer  folds  is  flung 

Than  thine,  o'er  churches,  courts,  and  schools  ; 
A  nobler  hymn  by  men  is  sung 

Than  hirelings  rave  of  "  Britain  Rules ! " 

On  thy  decrepit  throne  in  vain 

Thou,  trembling,  cursest  wayward  fates ;  — 
These  islands  are  to  Christ's  domain 

Thus  won  by  the  United  States. 


CHAPEL  IN  LIBERIA. 

While  a  collection  was  making  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  a  Chapel 

in  Liberia,  which  was  also  to  serve  for  a  school-house,  little  S ,  an 

orphan  girl,  who  had  listened  to  the  account  of  that  colony,  with  the 
deepest  interest,  came  forward,  and  eagerly  tendered  her  little  box  of 
savings,  saying,  "  Take  it  all." 

Nay,  take  my  gift,  and  spurn  it  not, 

My  heart  obeys  that  call ; 
Others  may  bring  their  gold,  yet  more 

I  offer  —  't  is  my  all. 

My  all  —  for  sorrow  gave  to  me 

Early  its  bitter  cup  ; 
My  God !  I  am  an  orphan  child, 

But  thou  wilt  take  me  up. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  257 

Oh  !  I  do  deem  them  brothers  now, 

Who  have  of  misery  known ; 
And  love  as  sisters  those  that  weep 

And  feel  like  me,  alone. 

Alone,  alone  —  the  motherless, 

Whom  each  one  seems  to  shun ; 
Cast  out  upon  the  cold  wide  world, 

A  solitary  one. 

Yet  more  I  pity  those  that  have 

Mothers  they  ne'er  may  see  ; 
My  mother  went,  but  then  I  know 

She  is  where  angels  be. 

Arid  while  I  call  upon  her  name, 

And  weep  where  she  doth  lie, 
Her  lofty  spirit-hymns  are  heard 

Above  the  star-lit  sky. 

Then  take  my  gift,  and  haste  to  build 

To  God  a  house  of  prayer, 
For  those  whom  cruel  hands  have  made 

The  orphans  of  despair. 


17 


258  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


THE  LABORER'S  TEMPERANCE  HYMN. 

Shall  the  bone  and  muscle,  Heaven 

Lent  us  —  shall  subduing  skill 
To  an  enemy  be  given  ? 

Shall  the  red  wine  triumph  still  ? 
Each  of  us,  around  whose  dwelling 

Labor's  ample  blessings  flow, 
Feels  his  manly  bosom  swelling 

With  indignant  answer,  No  ! 

Shall  the  freedom  falchions  bought  us,  — 

When  our  injured  land  rose  up, 
Which  to  cherish,  Time  has  taught  us, 

Be  surrendered  to  the  cup  ? 
We  —  God  bless  them  !  love  the  story 

Of  our  fathers  and  the  foe, 
And  we  answer,  by  their  glory, 

And  the  boon  they  left  us,  No  ! 

Raging  drink !  thou  'It  not  enslave  us ; 

Sparkling  bowl !  thou  now  art  dim ; 
Angel  Temperance  stoops  to  save  us 

From  the  death  within  thy  brim. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  259 

Save  us  I    Yes,  though  we  -were  spell  bound, 

Fixed  in  very  sight  of  woe, 
Yet  The  Pledge  shall  free  the  hell-bound  : — 

Will  we  wear  those  shackles  ?     No  ! 

From  the  flood's  o'erwhelming  power, 

We  unto  this  ark  have  fled  ; 
Whence  we  gaze,  in  safety's  hour, 

On  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Now,  of  God,  earth's  sons  and  daughters  — 

As  on  high  he  sets  his  bow  — 
Ask,  if  shall  return  those  waters  ? 

And  Jehovah  answers,  No ! 


WHAT  SHALL  I  DO  IN  HEAVEN  ? 

I  'm  sick  of  all  the  busy  strife 

That  vexeth  now  this  clay  ^ 
The  cumbrous  garniture  of  life 

I  long  to  put  away. 
My  journey  done,  how  gladly  I 

These  vestments,  wove  of  pride, 
These  clinging  lusts  of  heart  and  eye, 

Would  fling  for  aye  aside. 
Quickly  unclothed,  forsake  the  stage, 
Ere  these  poor  rags  drop  off  by  age. 


260  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

I  long  to  take  my  eager  flight 

From  this  imperfect  world, 
To  skies  o'er  which  no  cloud  of  night 

Has  ever  yet  been  curled ; 
Whose  travellers  compass  all  the  plains, 

And  never  meet  a  storm  ; 
Whose  landscapes,  winter  winds  nor  rains, 

Nor  summer  droughts  deform. 
Like  a  tired  bird,  upon  my  breast 
To  fold  my  wings,  and  be  at  rest. 

No  !  —  like  a  laborer  of  his  load 

Relieved,  to  go  or  stay, 
And  humbly  waiting,  gracious  God, 

Thy  pleasure  to  obey ; 
And  gained  for  this  uncertain  pace, 

An  angel's  darting  flame, 
To  traverse  for  Thee,  realms  of  space, 

Which  numbers  could  not  name. 
Oh  !  blest  to  labor  or  lie  still, 
And  know  I  'm  doing  all  thy  will  1 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  261 


ROOM  IN  MOUNT  AUBURN! 

Room  in  Mount  Auburn  !  — for  the  traveller  *  Room ! 

Who  comes  from  pilgrimage  to  seek  a  tomb. 

Where  throng  the  wise,  the  gifted,  holy  dead, 

The  greatly  wept  for,  he  should  lay  his  head ; 

And  the  same  spotless  robe  that  winter  throws 

O'er  these,  should  wrap  him  in  a  kind  repose. 

The  same  sweet  warblings  when  the  small  birds  grieve, 

The  same  fair  flowers  that  early  May  will  weave, 

Shall  be  for  Mm  ;  —  none  nobler,  purer,  rest 

Until  the  resurrection  of  the  blest. 

Room !  Room  !  for  him  who,  seeking  distant  Seine, 

Discovered  rivers  fringed  with  heavenly  green. 

Who  went  for  life  and  gained  it  —  yielding  breath, 

Life,  everlasting  Life  he  found  in  Death. 


*  A  young  American  clergyman,  of  great  promise,  went  to  Europe 
in  pursuit  of  health,  and  died  at  Paris.  His  remains  were  brought 
home  for  interment  in  Mount  Auburn. 


262  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


HYMN, 

"Written  for  the  Anniversary  of  a  Sunday  School  Association. 

Thee  we  heard  not,  when  thy  footsteps 

Told,  the  Children's  Friend  was  nigh ; 
Thee  we  saw  nof,  when  their  shoutings 

At  thy  presence  rent  the  sky. 
Yet  beyond  those  Hebrew  warblers 

We  of  Gentile  race  are  blest ; 
Short  with  them  thy  tarrying  —  with  us 

Thou  hast  taken  up  thy  rest. 

"  Taken  up  thy  rest "  —  Redeemer  ! 

Yes,  though  not  on  Jewish  ground  ; 
Here  the  youthful  heart  may  find  thee, 

If  that  heart  is  contrite  found. 
And  though  thunder  not  "  hosannas" 

Where  thy  foot  our  street  has  trod, 
Yet  we  feel  in  hymns  of  worship 

Thy  sweet  presence,  Son  of  God. 

Thou  didst  never,  while  Incarnate, 

Take  us  in  thine  arms  of  love, 
Saying,  with  thy  lips  of  mercy, 

"  Such  compose  my  realm  above  : " 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  263 

Yet  thy  children  if  accepted, 

We  redeemed  and  crowned  shall  be  ; 

And  with  those  shall  find  protection, 
Who  are  folded,  Lord,  by  Thee. 


SOFT  ARE  THE  SLUMBERS  OF  THE  SUN- 
LESS TOMB. 

"  Man  lieth  down  and  riseth  not  again  till  the  heavens  be  no  more." 

Job. 

Soft  are  the  slumbers  of  the  sunless  tomb ; 

Quiet  dwells  there  —  its  inmate  brooding  peace. 
The  still  inhabitant  heeds  not  the  gloom 
Of  night,  nor  starts  when  morn  awakes  in  bloom, 

The  wanderer  rests,  and  cares  and  sorrows  cease. 
Yet  shall  these  forms  for  ever  pillow  there  ? 
Shall  dust  to  dust  its  lasting  kin  compare  ? 

O  Thou  Unseen  !  shall  thy  creation  sleep, 
Mingled  with  earth,  and  dark  corruption  share, 

Where  Silence,  drear,  and  Death,  their  vigils  keep  ? 
We  bless  thee  for  the  cheering  hope  revealed, 

Where  Inspiration  sheds  its  living  ray, 
Which,  quickening  vision,  shows  the  grave  unsealed, 

Its  slumberers  waking  to  Eternal  Day. 


264  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


VERSES  AT  MACHIAS. 

AFTER   ATTENDING   THE   MAINE    CONFERENCE    OF 
CHURCHES. 

I've  journeyed  o'er  thy  noble  hills,  O  Maine  ! 
And  seen  their  torrents  leaping,  wildly  free ; 
And  threaded  lovely  vale,  and  trod  the  plain, 
Where  hastes  the  shining  river  to  the  sea. 

"  'T  is  beautiful !  *  I  said  —  and  joyful  prayer 
For  blessings  on  thee  rose,  that  I  could  look 
On  lessons  written  out  so  wondrous  fair, 
For  my  instruction,  in  the  Maker's  book. 

Yet  not  the  noble  hill,  nor  torrent  free, 
Nor  fairy  vale,  nor  plain,  whose  shining  flood 
Hastens  unto  its  lover,  the  great  sea  — 
Reveals  to  me  so  much  a  present  God, 

As  doth  the  quiet  lesson,  taught  by  this 
Communion  of  the  hearts  that  grace  hath  knit, 
The  while  I  read,  imparting  solemn  bliss, 
Which,  if  not  Heaven,  doth  much  resemble  it ; 


POETRY    OF    LIFE. 


265 


And  well  instructs  me,  that  though  pilgrims  may 
Seem  separate  in  the  path  that  leads  above, 
Yet  ever,  in  that  sole  and  narrow  way 
Where    Christians  walk,   they  walk  in   Christian 
Love. 


DEATH  AT  THE  MIRROR. 

The  case  of  a  young  and  beautiful  lady  is  mentioned,  who,  while 
arraying  herself  before  the  mirror,  for  her  bridal,  was  struck  with 
death. 

O  Death  !  't  is  thine  to  choose 
Strange  time  to  execute  the  stern  decree ; 
As  if  provoked  that  mortals  still  refuse, 
In  their  forgetfulness,  to  learn  of  thee. 

Not  only  youth  thy  dart 
Searches  with  silent  and  unerring  aim, 

But  at  the  moment  when  the  warm,  full  heart 
Nourishes  hope,  and  joy's  delicious  flame, 


Thou  layest  the  beauty  low. 
And  then,  in  mockery  of  all  that 's  fair, 

Dost  bid  us  gaze,  and  see  what  empty  show, 
What  dust  and  ashes  our  fond  idols  are ! 


♦ — ♦ 

266                               POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

EVERTS. 

Every  sorrow  here, 

That  from  evil  seems  to  rise, 

If  it  start  contrition's  tear, 

Is  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

Every  friend  that  grieves, 

By  frail  insincerity, 

Teacheth  of  a  Friend  that  leaves 

Never,  but  still  helpeth  me. 

Every  vexing  stealth 

Fortune  maketh  of  my  goods, 

Only  bids  me  store  my  wealth 

Where  no  cunning  thief  intrudes. 

Every  babe  to  dust 

Given  with  reluctant  pain, 

Is  but  my  Redeemer's  trust, 

Which  he  will  restore  again. 

Every  pang  that  gnaws 

Fiercely  this  poor  frame  of  mine, 

If  but  sanctified,  me  draws 

Nearer  to  the  bliss  divine. 
4-, <> 

POETRY    OF    LIFE.  267 

Every  little  sand 

Loosened  by  this  stormy  strife, 
Tells  me  of  a  better  land, 

And  of  an  unreckoned  life. 

Every  living  thing 

Or  of  teeming  earth  or  flood, — 
Creeping,  walking,  on  the  wing  — 

Is  a  teacher  of  my  God. 

i 

Every  star  that  burns 

On  night's  diadem, 
If  it  thought  to  Jesus  turns  — 

Is  a  star  of  Bethlehem. 


THE  BEARING  OF  THE  CROSS. 

And  after  they  had  mocked  him,  they  took  the  robe  off  from  him, 
and  put  his  own  raiment  on  him  ;  —  and  he,  bearing  his  cross,  went 
forth.— The  Gospel. 

Curses  rang  out  as  they  his  thrall 

Beheld,  and  proud  lips  curled, 
When  bowed  within  that  marble  hall, 

The  Saviour  of  the  world ; 


268  POETRY    OF   LIFE. 

When  the  fell  glance  of  hell  he  met 

With  unreproving  eye ; 
And  for  reproach,  implored  yet 

Forgiveness  from  on  high. 

More  to  be  worshipped  in  his  grief 

And  meekness,  there  alone, 
On  that  stern  floor,  than  loftiest  chief 

That  reared  or  razed  a  throne. 
More  to  be  loved,  the  Sinless  then 

In  his  agony  and  cries, 
Bruised  by  the  Father's  hand,  than  when 

He  curtained  out  the  skies. 

He  bore  the  scoff  and  maddening  shout ; 

The  wormwood  was  not  there  ; 
But  in  the  wrath  that  hung  about, 

And  the  silence  for  his  prayer. 
*T  was  not  the  anguish  of  the  tree 

That  crushed  the  God  within  ; 
But  the  withering  frown  of  Deity, 

The  malison  for  sin. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  269 


VIEWS  IN  PORTLAND. 

The  monument  over  the  tomb  of  Edward  Payson,  having  been  over- 
thrown and  broken  by  some  ruthless  hand,  still  remains  mutilated 
and  unsightly.  The  church  edifice  in  which  he  ministered  has  been 
expensively  and  beautifully  modernized  and  improved. 

I  looked,  admiring,  at  her  proud  Exchange  ; 

Gazed  on  her  harbor,  dotted  with  green  isles  ; 
And,  where  old  hills  in  the  horizon  range, 

Saw  frolic  Nature  wreathe  her  frowns  and  smiles ; 
And  blest  my  God  that  earth,  of  much  bereft, 
Has  much  of  Eden  for  his  creatures  left. 

Then  sought  I  what,  beyond  her  domes  and  hills 
And  fairy  isles,  of  rarer  sight  I  deem  — 

His  resting-place  whose  sainted  image  fills 
All  that  of  perfect  we  (imperfect)  dream;  — 

And  sighed  that  marble,  marred,  still  points  the  eye 

To  his  low  bed  whose  "  Record  is  on  high." 

Should  not  this  tablet  —  transcript  of  the  man  — 
By  skill  and  taste  and  beauty  be  imprest, 

The  true  expression  of  a  faultless  plan 

On  which  the  heart,  well  satisfied,  may  rest ; 

And  to  which  all  may  say  as  —  his  goal  won  — 

God  said  to  Payson  :  "  Good  and  True !  well  done  "  ? 


270  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

Dwellers  of  Casco  !  that  enduring  name 

Is  linked  with  yours  ;  and  you  possess  his  dust 

Who  felt  the  ardor  of  his  spirit's  flame  ;  — 
Guard,  as  becomes  ye,  well,  the  awful  trust. 

This,  if  your  proverty  may  not  assume, 

Spare  from  the  shrine,  and  give  a  decent  tomb. 


ENCHANTED  GROUND. 

Christian.  —  "  Do  you  not  remember  that  one  of  the  Shepherds 
bid  us  beware  of  the  Enchanted  Ground  ? "  —  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

We,  travellers,  find  our  homeward  way 

By  many  a  subtle  foe  beset ; 
We  war  with  sin,  and  many  a  fray 

Must  prove  our  trusty  armor  yet. 
Snares,  trials,  combats,  as  we  go, 

We  yet  shall  find,  as  we  have  found ; 
And  these  to  us  will  surely  show 

We  still  are  on  Enchanted  Ground. 

Vexed  with  ourselves,  how  often  we 
O'er  indecision  grieve,  and  sloth  !  — 

To  Earth  and  Heaven  we  bow  the  knee, 
Yet  feel  we  cannot  worship  both. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  271 

We  haste  to  duty ;  then  go  back, 

Again  to  follow  Pleasure's  round ; 
And,  with  the  thousands  in  her  track, 

Discern  we  're  on  Enchanted  Ground. 

How  bright  the  perfect  pattern  given 

By  Him  who  marked  the  narrow  way  ! 
May  we  not,  creeping  thus  to  Heaven, 

Walk  as  he  walked  ?  —  we  know  we  may. 
And  lo !  we  leap  —  we  run  —  we  fly  — 

We  proudly  spurn  earth's  scanty  bound  — 
Till,  weary,  falling  from  the  sky, 

We  kiss  once  more  Enchanted  Ground. 

A  follower  of  the  Cross  behold  — 

A  young  disciple  pressing  on  ; 
How  zealous,  active,  cheerful,  bold ! 

The  "  shining  light "  is  almost  won. 
But  slumbering  sins  awake  ;  —  a  host 

Comes  up  with  hostile  show  and  sound  ; 
Alas  !  is  lovely  Beulah's  coast 

Approached  through  this  Enchanted  Ground  ? 

Our  Church,  so  lately  shadowed  o'er 
With  wings  of  the  Eternal  Dove,  — 

So  rich  in  faith,  yet  asking  more ; 
So  honored,  yet  so  full  of  love ; 


272  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

Our  Church,  that  on  her  way  erect, 
All-glorious  moved,  to  Zion  bound  — 

Why  droops  the  Church  we  deemed  elect  ? 
Our  Church  is  on  Enchanted  Ground. 

The  Sunday  School  —  that  little  flock, 

Feeble  or  strong,  as  is  the  Church  — 
Once  could  the  accuser's  malice  mock  ; 

Once  fearless  ask  the  faithful  search ; 
Why  is  this  precious  fold  unsafe  ? 

Why  is  the  wolf  within  it  found  ? 
O  teacher !  ne'er  at  conscience  chafe, 

That  says,  thou  'rt  on  Enchanted  Ground. 

The  frequent  season  of  delight, 

When  saints  looked  up  for  promised  aid  ; 
Or  when,  in  watches  of  the  night, 

Each  in  his  secret  Bethel  prayed ; 
The  place  where  once  those  mothers  met, 

And  blessings  for  their  children  found ; 
Why,  dreaming,  do  ye  these  forget  ? 

Be  warned  !  ye  're  on  Enchanted  Ground. 

O  minister  of  Jesus  !  thou 

Whose  privilege  it  is  to  lead 
The  thirsty  where  sweet  waters  flow, 

The  hungry  with  true  bread  to  feed  — 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  273 

Should  now  thy  hands  drop  helpless  down, 
Because  no  Hur  nor  Aaron 's  found  ? 

"  Play  thou  the  man,"  and  win  thy  crown, 
Nor  halt  on  this  Enchanted  Ground. 

Myself !  —  where  marchest  thou  to-day  ? 

Myself !  —  art  thou  as  firm  for  God, 
As  when,  years  past,  this  pilgrim  way 

Thy  eager  steps  delighted  trod  ? 
Is  prayer  as  fervent,  faith  as  strong  ? 

Dost  thou  in  labors,  blest,  abound  ? 
To  travellers  true  dost  thou  belong  ? 

Or  art  thou  on  Enchanted  Ground, 

Delaying,  trifling,  sleeping  ?     Wake  ! 

Wake  !  for  the  shadows  of  the  night 
Are  stealing  on  thee  ;  —  rest  forsake  ; 

O  sworded  one  !  be  up  for  fight. 
There 's  not  a  few  that  sleep  or  stray ; 

Yet  he  who 's  wakeful,  watchful  found, 
Will  walk  in  light,  although  his  way 

Lies  through  this  dark  Enchanted  Ground. 


18 


274  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


APPEAL 

FROM    BIBLE    COUNTRIES    TO    THE   AMERICAN 
SUNDAY   SCHOOL    UNION. 

Thirty  thousand  dollars  might  be  employed  at  this  moment,  in 
translating  and  putting  into  circulation  an  assortment  of  the  unex- 
ceptionable, evangelical,  and  attractive  books  of  the  American  Sunday 
School  Union,  among  thousands  of  readers  who  now  inhabit  the  very 
land  which  was  once  traversed  by  prophets,  apostles,  and  martyrs. 
Rev.  Mr.  Brewer,  of  the  Smyrna  Mission. 

A  voice  to  thee  !  —  to  thee,  whose  noble  aim 

It  is  to  nurture  Childhood  for  the  skies  ;  — 

A  voice  from  the  Levant !  it  strongly  cries 

For  instant  help ;  —  the  lands  that  lie  in  shame 

Appeal  to  thee  in  the  Redeemer's  name. 

Favored  of  Institutions  !  whose  blest  root 

Strikes  deep,  —  whose  boughs  are  redolent  of  fruit,  — 

Thou,  like  to  the  small  mustard  seed,  from  small 

Beginnings  sprang:  —  silent,  yet  surely  grew 

Thy  stem  in  beauty  ;  — now,  thou  'rt  strong  and  tall, 

In  bloom  luxuriant,  and  fruitful  too. 

On  the  Atlantic  slope  thou  hast  caused  schools 

To  rise  by  thousands  ;  —  Alleghany  sees 

Thy  influence  far  beyond  him.     Knowledge  rules 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  275 

Where  solitude  once  triumphed ;  —  humble  knees 

Are  bowed  on  flowery  prairies,  and  the  voice 

Of  young  hosannas  makes  the  "West  rejoice. 

To  the  fair  sunny  South  thy  heralds  go. 

The  sweetly  winning  books  that  simply  speak, 

In  useful  narrative,  of  weal  and  woe, 

Companions  of  the  young  throughout  the  week, 

Thou  scatterest ;  —  the  harvest  who  can  know ! 

Nor  to  these  shores  confined,  thy  light  hath  felt 

Dark  Hindostan.     Responsive  to  her  calls, 

Thy  page  hath  visited  the  Indian  halls. 

Hearts  thou  hast  moved  that  long  to  idols  knelt ; 

Thou  art  already  to  the  Brahmin  known ; 

Thou  hast  already  reached  the  Rajah's  throne. 

Blest  labors  !  blest  reward !     To  thee  is  given 

To  see,  most  nobly  prospering  in  thy  hands, 

God's  work,  —  small  faith  thus  shaming.     Yet  hath 

Heaven 
For  thee  more  fields,  and  larger  ;  there  are  other  lands ! 
Oh !  look  at  length,  upon  the  prophets'  soil, 
Where  martyrs  languished,  and  apostles  trod,  — 
And  with  these  pages,  fruit  of  prayer  and  toil, 
Bless  climes  where  prayed,  and  toiled,  and  died  the 

Son  of  God! 


276  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


FILL  UP! 

A  thousand  warriors  to  the  charge  — 

Bold-hearted  men  —  have  sprung ; 
In  thunders  of  the  cannon's  voice 

Their  passing  dirge  is  sung : 
And  thousands  more  at  call  of  drum 

Are  rushing  on  the  foe ; 
Fill  up  !  Fill  up  !  —  like  those  they  come  ■ 

Like  those  to  slumber  low. 

They  fall,  and  't  is  a  fading  leaf 

Earth  gives  unto  her  slain  ; 
They  die,  't  is  in  Fame's  trumpet-song 

Her  heroes  live  again. 
And  such  her  glory  !  —  who  has  not 

In  bitterness  of  soul, 
Mused  on  the  mighty,  now  forgot, 

Once  blazoned  on  her  scroll  ? 

Not  such  is  your  triumphant  gain, 

Ye  followers  of  the  cross ! 
Compared  with  that  which  ye  obtain, 

The  universe  were  loss : 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  277 


Your  leader  is  the  Crucified, 

Whose  death  was  Death's  defeat ; 

And  with  him  battling  at  your  side, 
Your  victory  's  complete. 

Not  such  your  banner-folds  that  wave 

To  endless  life  alone, 
That  float  above  the  soldier's  grave, 

And  flash  upon  his  throne. 
Yes,  from  the  consecrated  field 

Where  Christ's  brave  legions  lie, 
Is  rising  other  monument 

Of  names  that  cannot  die. 

Then  see,  where  press  the  vigorous  siege, 

Yon  gallant,  glorious  few ; 
They  give  their  heart's-blood  for  their  liege, 

And  straight  are  wrapt  from  view. 
In  Afric,  China,  and  Bengal, 

Their  bones  in  waiting  lie ; 
;  Fill  up  our  ranks  !  "  to  us  they  call, 

"  Fill  up  I  Fill  up  !  "  we  cry. 


278  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


A  COLLOQUY  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

H  And  lo  the  Star,  which  they  saw  in  the  East,  went  before  them  j 
till  it  came  and  stood  over  where  the  young  child  was." — Matt.  ii.  9. 

O'er  Bethlehem  the  beauteous  Star, 
Bright  stranger !  sheds  mysterious  ray ; 

It  guides  the  traveller  afar, 

It  cheers  the  wanderer's  weary  way. 

First  Shepherd. 
O  Shepherd !  whence  the  peerless  gem 

That  burns  alone  on  heaven's  brow  ? 
Beams  there  Judea's  diadem  — 

Returns  a  king  or  conqueror  now  ? 

Second  Shepherd. 
No  diadem  for  Judah  burns ; 

No  regal  sceptre  for  her  kings ; 
From  spoil  no  conqueror  returns, 

No  pageantry  the  herald  brings ;  — 

It  shines,  the  harbinger  of  peace, 
Israel  no  more  shall  weep  in  blood ; 

It  bids  dark  superstition  cease, 
And  leads  the  sinner  to  his  God. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  279 

First  and  Second  Shepherd. 
Star  of  Redemption  !  from  thy  sphere, 

A  herald  Star  —  thou  wanderest  lone ; 
Shine  on  our  path,  dispel  our  fear, 

And  guide  us  to  the  Lsf ant's  throne. 


GOD  IS  RIGHT. 

"  And  we  took  all  his  cities  at  that  time,  and  titterly  destroyed  the 
men  and  the  women,  and  the  little  ones  in  every  city  ;  we  left  none  to 
remain."— Deut.  ii.  34. 

Thus  saith  the  Lord,  "  The  Heshbonite, 

Thou,  for  my  holy  Name  — 
Sires,  mothers,  little  ones,  shalt  smite, 

And  wrap  his  towers  in  flame." 

Then  thus  sung  Moses,  "  Glory  ye 

In  his  most  holy  Name ! 
We  smote  sires,  mothers,  little  ones, 

And  wrapt  their  towers  in  flame." 

Thou  murmurest,  unsubmissive  man ; 

And  Reason  questions  why, 
In  Heaven's  exterminating  plan, 

The  innocent  should  die. 


280  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

"  Have  these  small  pagans  sin  conceived 
Within  the  hidden  part  ? 
Die  they  because  they  've  not  believed 
With  all  the  mind  and  heart  ? 

*T  is  well  for  the  uncircumcised, 

The  heathen,  in  his  thrall, 
Who  Israel's  God  alike  despised, 

And  Israel,  thus  to  fall. 

But  these  —  on  quivering  spears  transfixed, 

Imploringly  to  die, 
Their  blood  with  their  pale  mothers'  mixed : 

Is  there  a  cause  ?  —  and  why  ? 

How  can  the  Jewish  manhood  lift 

O'er  infancy,  the  sword, 
Nor  from  the  chaff  the  seedlings  sift  ? 

Is  this  thy  justice,  Lord  ?  " 

Vain  fool !  and  impudent  as  vain ! 

Wouldst  thou,  of  glow-worm  light, 
Transparent  Rectitude  arraign, 

At  thy  tribunal's  night  ? 

What  though  He  flings  around  his  feet 

His  darkness,  like  a  pall  ? 
'T  is  seen  by  us,  and  thou  mayst  see 't  — 

Light  crowns  the  Judge  of  all. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  281 

Subdue  thyself  to  his  control ; 

To  his  decrees,  thy  wit, 
Wisdom,  and  will,  and  sense,  and  soul, 

In  deepest  dust,  submit. 

Submit?  — prefer  (for  Reason  's  blind) 

The  ways  of  God  with  man  ; 
Unriddled  to  the  trusting  mind, 

Is  His  mysterious  plan. 

The  sword  that  drank  the  stranger's  blood, 

And  parents  smote  to  hell, 
Sharply,  but  kindly,  sent  with  God 

Their  little  ones  to  dwell ! 


THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION. 


"  This  Valley  of  Humiliation  is,  of  itself,  as  fruitful  a  place  as  any 
the  crow  flies  over." — Mb.  Gbeatheart. 


Yale  of  the  Humble,  worldlings  say, 
That,  lurking  in  thy  dark  retreat, 

Are  ever-watchful  beasts  of  prey, 
And  lions  there  and  dragons  meet. 


282  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

That  in  thy  path  Apollyon  stands, 

All  eager,  pilgrims  to  affront ; 
And  round  him  rally  countless  bands, 

Thrice  armed  for  Sin's  infernal  brunt. 

Vale  of  the  Humble,  we  behold 

Yet  oftener,  on  the  heights  of  pride, 

The  foul  Fiend's  shining  scales  of  gold, 
Than  in  the  lowly  valley's  side. 

Here  we  're  exempt  from  noise  and  strife  ; 

Here  heart  with  heart  may  freely  talk ; 
Here  angels  dwell ;  the  Lord  of  Life 

In  this  retirement  loves  to  walk. 

'T  is  pleasant,  where  sweet  waters  spring, 
And  birds  and  flowers  refresh  the  sight; 

'T  is  safe,  where  waves  the  ample  Wing 
That  shields  the  Humble,  day  and  night. 

Here  then  we  '11  walk  ;  and  if  in  wrath 
Obstructing  Death  and  Hell  are  seen, 

Death's  Death,  Hell's  Victor,  clears  the  path  ; 
Vale  of  the  Humble,  fair  and  green  ! 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  283 


IS  THERE  A  HEART. 

Is  there  a  heart  on  which  thy  own 
May  bosom  in  affliction's  hour  ? 

Whose  pulse,  to  selfishness  unknown, 
Beats  quick  with  feeling's  holy  power  ? 

Is  there  a  soul  so  nobly  free, 

'T  would  proudly  love,  though  all  beside 
Had  passed  thee  in  adversity, 

Wrapt  in  the  mantle  of  their  pride  ? 

Oh  !  seize  that  heart !  for  richer  't  is 
Than  all  that  glittering  dust  can  boast ; 

Cherish  it  thou  !  't  will  yield  a  bliss 

To  cheer,  when  worlds  on  worlds  are  tost. 

Though  hard  thy  lot,  Misfortune's  son  ! 

A  prey  to  ills  —  dare  not  repine  ; 
On  thee  Hope's  beacon-light  has  shone, 

If  such  a  heart  in  truth  be  thine. 


284  POETRY  OF  LIFE. 


LESSONS  FROM  A  CANARY  BIRD. 


On  Sabbath  morning,  soon  after  the  commencement  of  the  fore- 
noon discourse,  a  beautiful  canary  bird  made  its  appearance  in  the 
church,  and  continued  flying  about  during  the  forenoon  and  after- 
noon services.  The  little  songster  would  startle  the  audience  with  an 
occasional  chirp,  as  if  in  response  to  the  eloquent  passages  of  the 
sermons.  This  pretty  incident  brought  to  our  mind  the  thought, 
that,  if  men  were  innocent  and  happy  as  this  little  winged  visitor,  they 
would  need  no  meetinghouses,  no  Gospel,  and  no  Saviour.— Hart- 
ford Patriot. 


Perhaps  it  is  an  idle  thought, 

Yet  if  I  could  be  free 
From  stain,  nor  needed  to  be  bought 

By  blood,  poured  out  for  me,  — 
No  house  of  prayer,  no  welcome  news 

Of  pardon  for  my  sin, — 
Would  I  such  state  of  being  choose 

To  that  I  now  am  in  ? 

To  see,  without  sweet  Mercy's  ray, 
The  Godhead  shine  but  dim  ; 

Like  Adam,  when  in  "  cool  of  day," 
The  Lord  God  talked  with  him ; 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  285 

Nor  know  how  in  the  cold  dark  heart 

Love's  flames  leap  up  and  live, 
When  Jesus  bids  despair  depart, 

And  says,  "  I  thee  forgive  !  " 

Nor  drop  the  sad,  delicious  tear 

That  from  repentance  springs  ? 
To  hear  of  Calvary,  as  I  hear 

Of  other  common  things  ? 
To  see  no  blessed  bounty  spread 

For  me,  a  fainting  guest  — 
No  cheering  wine,  no  living  bread, 

By  my  kind  Master  blest  ? 

To  lose  that  bliss,  not  found  in  heaven, 

That  song  no  angel  knows  — 
The  secret  bliss  of  sin  forgiven,  — 

The  happy  song  that  flows, 
When  heart  and  hand  and  soul  and  voice 

Essay  each  tuneful  chord, 
And  earth  seems  hastening  to  rejoice, 

And  with  me  praise  the  Lord  ? 

To  weep  in  Sorrow's  bitter  night, 

As  I  am  made  to  weep  — 
Nor  deem  that  One,  in  robes  of  light, 

Doth  with  me  vigils  keep  ? 


286  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 

To  lay  in  death  my  aching  head, 

With  no  assurance  there, 
That  Jesus  makes  such  dying  bed 

His  own  peculiar  care  ? 

To  wear,  above,  a  harp  and  crown, 

And  never  thanks  repeat  ? 
Yea,  never,  never  cast  them  down 

At  my  Redeemer's  feet  ? 
To  bathe  my  soul  in  splendors  bright, 

Yet  miss  the  starry  gem, 
To  which  heaven  owes  its  fairest  light  — 

My  Saviour's  diadem  ? 

And  where  the  thousand  thousands  cry, 

Dominions,  thrones,  degrees  — 
In  one  majestic  harmony, 

Even  as  "  the  sound  of  seas," 
"  Worthy  the  Lamb  !  "  —  to  hear  no  hymn 

His  attributes  proclaim, 
Nor  vie  with  quiring  Seraphim 

In  honors  to  his  Name  ? 

It  is,  indeed,  an  "  idle  thought ;  " 

I  would  not  be  made  free, 
Though  worthless,  wandering,  vile  —  from  aught, 

My  God  prepares  for  me. 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  287 

Content  —  yes  more,  I  choose  that  state 

Which  doth  his  plan  fulfil ; 
And  only  pray  that  I  may  wait 

And  do  his  perfect  will. 


DEDICATION. 

Arise,  0  Lord !  Thou  and  the  ark  of  thy  strength ;  let  thy  priests 
e  clothed  with  salvation,  and  let  thy  saints  shout  aloud  for  joy. 

The  Psalmist. 

Richly  arose  the  diapason's  swell, 
That  failed  not  our  low  praise  in  heaven  to  tell. 
Fervently  went,  on  wings  of  faith,  the  prayer 
That  God  indeed  would  tabernacle  there, 
And  shed,  as  silent  dew,  refreshing  grace. 
Earnest  the  words  that  set  apart  the  place 
For  joyful,  solemn  worship.     Now,  then,  come ! 

O  Father  !  here  record  thy  awful  name. 
Incarnate  Jesus  !  Thou,  the  embodied  sum 

Of  each  desire,  of  every  good,  here  claim 
Souls  for  thy  travail.     Holy  Ghost !  draw  near, 
By  the  woke  conscience  and  the  secret  tear. 
Us,  waiting,  Triune  God !  Sire !  Son  !  and  Dove ! 
Fill  with  Thyself—  Thyself !     Illimitable  Love  ! 


288  POETRY   OF   LIFE. 


GAZE  THOU  UPON  A  FALLEN  WORLD. 

Gaze  thou  upon  a  fallen  world, 

Of  God's  once  glorious  work  a  part ; 
O'er  which  his  cloud  of  wrath  is  curled, 

And  let  thine  eyes  affect  thy  heart. 
A  world  where  all  have  deeply  sinned, 

Where  flows  the  curse  for  rebel  man, 
From  Arctic  to  the  burning  Ind  ; 

From  Greenland  to  Japan. 

Earth,  that  from  the  Eternal's  hand 

Came  forth  so  fair,  what  is  she  now  ? 
Survey  her  scath  from  land  to  land, 

Yet  of  the  ruin  ask  not  thou : 
'T  is  seen  in  unforgiving  eyes 

That  tell  of  baleful  fires  within  ; 
'T  is  seen,  where  her  fierce  nations  rise 

To  battle,  that 't  is  Sin. 

'T  is  heard  in  every  secret  sigh 

That  tells  of  sorrow ;  and  the  breath 

That  falters  ;  and  the  earnest  cry 
That  heralds  the  approach  of  death. 


POETRY   OF   LIFE.  289 

'T  is  written  on  his  faded  face 

Who,  childless,  to  the  grave  has  gone  ; 

Its  bitter  triumphs  thou  mayst  trace 
On  every  churchyard  stone. 

And  where  are  they  that  should  have  wept, 

In  agony,  for  mortal  woe  ? 
Deem  they  the  last  command  has  slept, 

Spoke  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  ? 
Deem  they,  it  were  enough  to  keep 

Eternity,  themselves,  in  view  — 
And  suffer  million  minds  to  sleep 

The  same  dark  journey  through  ? 

Wake  such  !  and  weep  the  shadow  thrown 

Across  a  world  that  should  be  light ; 
Wake  such  !  and  ask  that  from  the  throne 

Some  glancing  beam  may  chase  the  night ; 
That  boundless  ocean,  hill  and  plain, 

Inheritance  for  Christ  may  be  ; 
And  for  his  travail,  tears,  and  pain  — 

The  universal  knee. 

And  wake  my  spirit !  —  What  dost  thou 

For  his  possession,  sunk  in  guilt, 
That  in  its  blood  is  lying  now, 

Yet  bought  by  that  on  Calvary  spilt  ? 
19 


290  FOETRY   OF    LIFE. 


Labor  and  pray !  —  Believe  this  earth, 
Yet  beautiful  in  tears  and  dust, 

Shall  spring  forth  to  a  second  birth, 
Nobler  than  at  the  first. 


CONFESSION. 

The  good  confess  to  God;  —  they  ever  feel 
Sin's  malady  a  God  alone  can  heal ; 
And,  weary  of  its  pains,  they  find  the  breast, 
Emptied  by  true  Confession,  has  true  rest. 
The  sinner,  haughty,  and  confirmed  in  pride 
And  stubbornness,  would  fain  transgression  hide. 
He  ne'er  to  Heaven  confesses,  nor  forsakes 
His  crimes ;  but  to  indifference  betakes 
Himself,  and  says  —  "  God  sees  not,  nor  awakes 
Judgment,  long  threatened." 

Yet  on  that  dread  day, 
When  shuddering  systems,  wrecked,  will  pass  away, 
When  thrones  are  set—  high  o'er  the  startled  crowd 
Will  swell  in  lamentation,  deep  and  loud, 
The  first,  long,  sad  Confession  of  the  sentenced  Proud ! 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  291 


WHEN  YON  BRIGHT  ORB  BENEATH  THE 
WEST. 

When  yon  bright  orb  beneath  the  west 

Descends  in  shades  of  even,  — 
When  all  is  hushed  in  peaceful  rest, 
The  soul  aspires  to  regions  blest, 

And  finds  repose  in  Heaven. 

'T  is  then  all  fleeting  joys  below, 

Awhile  to  mortals  given, 
Seem  but  the  pageant  of  a  show, 
The  veil  that  hides  a  latent  woe  — 

And  false,  compared  with  Heaven. 

'T  is  then  all  cares  and  sorrows  here, 

By  which  frail  man  is  driven,  — 
As  evening  shadows,  disappear, 
And  all  within  is  calm  and  clear, 

Illumed  with  rays  from  Heaven. 

Freed  from  this  Earth,  my  soul  would  share 

The  joys  to  angels  given, 
In  bright  celestial  mansions,  where 
Blest  Virtue  beams  divinely  fair, 

The  glorious  dawn  of  Heaven. 


292  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 


TO  THE  STEAMSHIP  PRESIDENT.* 

Proud  barque  !  we  freighted  thee  with  gold ; 

Our  choicest  gems  we  gave  to  thee  ; 
Thou  hadst  our  all ;  —  to  have  and  hold, 

And  bear  in  safety  o'er  the  sea. 
Art  thou  unfaithful  to  the  trust  ? 
Wilt  thou  fulfil 't  ?  —  Be  just !  be  just ! 

We  left  our  treasures  with  regret ; 

We  counted  them,  for  they  were  dear; 
Some  laughed,  as  care  they  would  forget, 

And  some  in  sadness  dropt  the  tear. 
The  veriest  miser  of  us  knew 
His  hoards  were  safe,  for  thou  wast  true. 

Hadst  thou  not  often  borne  for  us 

Rich  household  gifts  of  price  unknown  ? 

And  didst  thou  ever  wrongly  thus 

Keep  back  what  was  not  all  thine  own  ? 

O  who  mistrusted !  or  would  shun 

Thy  faithless  care  ?  —  not  one  !  not  one ! 


*  This  noble  vessel  left  New  York,  in  the  spring  of  1841,  with  pas- 
sengers and  freight  for  Liverpool,  and  was  heard  of  no  more. 


POETRY   OF    LIFE.  293 

We  saw  thee  leave  us  in  thy  pride, 

And  many  a  prayer  pursued  thy  track, 

That  He  who  ebbs  and  floods  the  tide, 

And  chains  the  sea,  would  bring  thee  back. 

Yet  not  one  bosom  harbored  doubt 

Of  her  return,  that  thus  went  out. 

Nay !  there  is  one  *  who  doubts  not  now  ! 

She  fondly  thinks  thee  just  and  true ; 
In  dreams  she  sees  thy  march,  as  thou 

All  proudly  cleav'st  thy  path  of  blue  ! 
Man  deems  thou  dost  no  longer  roam, 
But  Woman  waits  to  hail  thee  home. 

We  trusted  God,  and  trusted  much 

Thy  noble  frame  of  northern  oak  ; 
Strong  as  thy  mates,  we  said  that  such 

Could  brave  the  tempest's  fiercest  stroke  ; 
Nor  plunge  too  deeply  down,  nor  reel, 
Though  timbers  shivered  to  the  keeL 

We  trusted  God,  yet  trusted  too 

To  science  and  the  perfect  skill 
That  could  a  trackless  way  pursue, 

And  make  a  distant  port,  at  will ; 


*  The  wife  of  one  of  the  ill-fated  passengers  still  believes,  with  all 
a  woman's  love  and  hope,  that  the  President  is  safe,  and  that  she 
shall  soon  behold  again  her  husband. 


294  POETRY   OF    LIFE. 

We  trusted  man,  well  tried  of  old  : 
We  trusted  thee  —  Give  back  our  gold ! 

Give  back  the  light  of  friendship's  day ; 

The  hearts  that  bound  us  in  their  spell ; 
We  parted  not  with  these  for  aye  ! 

We  had  not  said  a  last  "  farewell ! " 
Give  back,  O  Journey er  of  the  Sea ! 
Our  own,  and  blessings  be  on  thee. 

In  vain,  in -vain  !  to  earnest  cry 

Of  widow  and  of  fatherless, 
The  sullen  winds  bring  no  reply  ; 

Though  for  the  tidings,  we  would  bless 
The  sullen  winds,  the  cruel  sea, 
If  tidings  they  would  give  of  thee. 

In  vain,  in  vain  !  no  pitying  friend 
Beheld  thee  climb  the  dreadful  wave, 

And  from  that  altitude  descend 
To  an  unfathomable  grave. 

Yet  thou  wast  faithful,  as  we  knew, 

For  with  thy  trust  thou  'st  perished  too  ! 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  295 


THE  WHITED  SEPULCHRE. 

Ye  may  set  round  this  stately  tomb, 
The  pots,  heaped  up  with  Flora's  bloom ; 
And  bid  white  violets  ope  their  leaf, 
And  cypress  stand  in  silent  grief ;  — 

Ye  may  adorn  this  hallowed  place 
With  all  that  art  contrives  to  grace ;  — 
The  tesselated  pavement,  walk 
Pebbled  or  turfed,  where  Mind  may  talk ; 

And  make  this  spot  of  quiet  rest 
Seem  outwardly  an  Eden  blest,  — 
A  garden,  to  the  senses  fair, 
Wooing  us  to  inhabit  there  ; 

And  yet,  when  all  is  done,  unlock 
The  iron  door  !  —  sight,  smell,  a  shock 
Receive,  appalling ;  —  loathing,  sick, 
The  dead  forsake  we  for  the  quick. 

Such  is  the  heart,  not  cleansed  ]py  grace, 
Such  is  that  foul,  unseemly  place  ; 
Rich,  outwardly,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Within,  offensive  as  the  tomb. 


296  POETRY    OF    LIFE. 

And  Holiness,  that  can  endure 
Only  the  fragrant  and  the  pure, 
Flies  from  the  path  by  vileness  trod ;  — 
0  Dead  in  sin  !  canst  thou  "  see  God  "  ? 


AN  EVENING  THOUGHT. 

Hast  thou,  my  soul,  improved  thy  powers 
With  zeal,  this  day,  for  God  and  Man  ? 

And  like  a  miser  weighed  the  hours, 

As  though  this  day  might  close  the  span  ? 

Perhaps  another  opening  morn 

On  earth  may  never  smile  on  thee  I  — 

Wert  thou  to  meet  to-morrow's  dawn 
In  yonder  vast  eternity,  — 

Wouldst  thou  with  grief  review  this  day, 
And  tremble  at  thy  Maker's  rod  ? 

Or  wouldst  thou  gladly  soar  away 
To  welcome  an  approving  God  ? 


POETRY    OF    LIFE.  297 


UNION  —  LAB  OR  —  PRAYER. 

Your  creed  may  be  pure  and  as  orthodox  found 
As  the  precept  of  Moses,  in  letters  of  light, 

When  Israel  received  it,  in  thunders,  and  sound 
Of  trumpet,  that  shook  aged  Sinai  with  fright. 

Your  faith  in  essentials  may  stand  like  the  rock 
That  billows  have  beaten  since  Time  was  a  youth ; 

Which,  meeting  and  breaking  the  element's  shock, 
Looks  silently  down  —  the  Gibraltar  of  Truth  ! 

Your  zeal  for  a  sect  may  be  burning  and  true  ; 

Your  prayers  and  your  praises  be  more  than  a  breath ; 
All  that  man  may  perform  for  Religion,  you  '11  do  ; 

Live  for  her,  or  cheerfully  go  to  the  death. 

And  yet  wanting  pity  for  him  who  is  fed 

On  husks,  or  is  starving,  you  turn  from  his  cry, 

He  will  faint  in  his  famine,  but  you  with  the  Bread 
Of  Life  in  possession,  shall  languish  and  die  ! 

Believe  it !  that  Zion  will  strengthen  her  stakes, 
Enlarge  her  proportions,  and  lengthen  her  cords, 

When  truce  with  his  idol  the  warrior  breaks ; 
Ever  waging  the  fight  which  is  only  the  Lord's. 


298  POETEY   OF    LIFE. 

That  idol  is  Self  !  and  the  meanest  of  all ; 

The  last  that  Omnipotence  lays  in  the  dust ; 
It  lurks  in  thy  bosom  !  —  it  tokens  thy  fall ! 

If  thou  wouldst  not  perish,  thine  enemy  must ! 

Come  hither !  —  in  Union,  and  Labor,  and  Prayer, 
Remember  thy  brother  who  wanders  in  sin ; 

To  seek  him,  and  save  him,  be  truly  thy  care, 
And  thou  in  the  conflict  with  Nature  shalt  win. 

And  for  this  blessed  purpose,  so  simple  !  so  grand  ! 

"We  have  everywhere  banners  of  triumph  unfurled ; 
Not  the  sword  of  true  temper  to  draw  for  a  land, 

But  with  hearts  large  as  Heaven  to  strike  for  a  world ! 


INDEX 


PAGE 

All  night  in  prayer,  while  mortals  slept 206 

An  altar,  in  a  foreign  land 234 

A  slave  is  in  my  house  to-night 48 

A  sorry  spectacle  dost  thou  present 154 

A  thought  has  lingered  at  the  grave 53 

A  thousand  warriors  to  the  charge 276 

A  Voice  from  Earth,  affrighted 196 

A  Toice  to  thee !      to  thee,  whose  noble  aim 274 

Beautiful  are  the  feet  that  stand 184 

Cambridge !  thou  hast  a  gentle  name 182 

Cast  out  the  Bible  from  the  schools 210 

Chain  a  man  to  abject  labor 169 

Christ  is  coming !  these  his  signs 47 

Christ,  my  human  friend,  I  might 130 

Come !  baptize  the  bell 213 

Come  hither,  thou 211 

Come  to  the  aged  Dead,  and  see Ill 

Curses  rang  out  as  they  his  thrall 267 

Death's  changes,  Time  and  Place  declare 89 

Directed  in  extremest  need 200 

Doth  gloomy  fate  with  sullen  frown 197 


300  INDEX. 


Every  sorrow  here 266 

Fair  daughter  of  the  sunny  isles 86 

Gaze  thou  upon  a  fallen  'world 288 

God  built  the  world,  and  built  so  well 59 

God  is  serious,  while  from  us 87 

God  of  Zion,  whence  her  banners 106 

Go,  preach  my  gospel,  and  proclaim 120 

Great  Britain !  down  thy  hungry  gorge 255 

Hail,  beauteous  Spring 132 

Happy  sister !  happy  brother 133 

Hast  thou,  my  soul,  improved  thy  powers 296 

He  is  not  dead !    0  can  he  die 189 

Hk  j.urneyed  on,  and  baited  at  each  house 109 

He  lay  beside  the  temple's  gate 240 

He  who  would  order  break 162 

His  sin  he  forsakes,  whatever  it  be 204 

I  am  not  what  I  ought  to  be 203 

I  know  the  world  derides  my  claim 127 

I  looked,  admiring,  at  her  proud  Exchange 269 

I  mourned  the  bright  visions  affection  had  cherished 104 

I  'm  sick  of  all  the  busy  strife 259 

In  Judah,  now,  the  minstrel's  lyre 168 

In  weakness  and  in  trembling 152 

Is  Hope  "  an  anchor  of  the  soul " 85 

Is  there  a  heart  on  which  thy  own 283 

It  is  the  same !  wherever  men 99 

I  've  an  ancient  Idol,  which 172 


♦ , 

INDEX.  301 

I  've  jotimeyed  o'er  thy  noble  hills,  0  Maine 264 

I  went  to  chapel  some  few  Sundays  since 67 

I  will  not  hence,  thy  sacred  truth 141 

Let  me  die  at  an  Inn ;  I  !d  be  free 190 

Lift  up  the  Cross,  when  in  thy  way 123 

Like  dreams  when  the  Good  pass  away 107 

Moloch  had  fallen,  and  Satan  wept 187 

My  brother !  —  such  by  common  ties 178 

My  God,  what  were  Thy  heaven  to  me 54 

My  morning  song  shall  God  address 215 

Nay,  take  my  gift,  and  spurn  it  not 256 

"  No  Rest  shall  be  to  guilty  man  " 252 

Now  yeil  your  "  stars  and  stripes,"  and  show 232 


0  Death !  ;t  is  thine  to  choose 265 

O'er  Bethlehem  the  beauteous  star 278 

0  God !  on  China  look 173 

Oh  !  blest  is  he  who  cares 160 

Oh,  glorious  Thou !  thy  throne  of  power 243 

Oh,  ye  blessed !  on  yonder  plains 128 

Once  proud  and  blinded  Pundit !  now 40 

One  speaks  for  all !  when  Peter  thus 95 

O  '•  rather  bring  thy  sacred  songs 208 

O  Saviour !  ere  on  radiant  wing 176 

O  Saviour !  were  thine  arms  of  love 230 

O  Stranger '.  yet  to  me  for  ever  near 145 

O  thou  that  hast  strayed  in  a  pathway  of  sorrow 202 

O  Years !  how  is  your  gift  denied 65 


302  INDEX. 


Pause  not  here,  ye  generous  men 237 

Perhaps  i:  is  an  idle  thought 254 

Proud  barque  !  we  freighted  thee  with  gold 292 

Eich  is  the  drop  from  the  soft  lid  of  eorrow 224 

Richly  arose  the  diapason's  swell 2S7 

Rise  !  and  celebrate  the  Day 158 

Roll  off  ye  clouds  and  show  a  sky 58 

Room  in  Mount  Auburn ! 2G1 

Servant  of  God !  from  thy  rude  Wales 79 

Shall  the  bone  and  muscle,  Heaven 258 

She  came,  and  like  a  star  divine 72 

!;  Shouldst  thou  behold  my  face,  the  sight 242 

Since  you.  0  Europe  !  crowd  our  shores 82 

u  Six  hundred  millions  bound  for  Night " 161 

Six  years  have  come,  six  years  have  flown 50 

Soft  are  the  slumbers  of  the  sunless  tomb 263 

Spent  with  the  toil  of  wasting  war 96 

Spirit  of  Missions  I  Spark  of  genuine  flame 5 

The  day  hath  fled.    On  Salem's  tower 113 

The  eager  Jesuit  pushed  his  way 44 

Thee  we  heard  not,  when  thy  footsteps 262 

The  few  I  have  tried  in  this  hollow  world 156 

The  good  confess  to  God  ;  —  they  ever  feel 290 

The  grave  hath  voice,  and  seems  to  say 74 

The  idols  of  the  Orient  bow 93 

There  are  yet  flowers  in  life's  wilderness 199 

The  shadowy  reign  of  Time  had  passed  away 121 

The  sinner  says  :  B  Let  Evil  rule ;' 247 


304  INDEX. 


What  title  write  ye,  Builders 248 

When  God  his  wrathful  stores  called  out 225 

When  Jesus  led  his  faithful  few 118 

When  Jim  one  day  with  brother  Joe 138 

When  rankling  sorrows  wound  the  soul 251 

When  thou  talkest  with  thy  neighbor 135 

When  yon  bright  orb  beneath  the  west 291 

Where  good  and  ill  are  strangely  mixed 101 

While  gaily  leaps  the  pulse  of  life 150 

Who  of  our  mortal  race  is  he 19S 

Why  not  upon  the  Plymouth  Rock 219 

Why  on  our  holy  service  steals 83 

Why  on  this  Zion-hill 192 

Why  tarry  ye,  ordained  to  bear 166 

With  angry  blow  he  smote  the  rock  •  •. 137 

Ye  Dead !  ye  Dead !  your  rest  is  sweet 228 

Ye  may  set  round  this  stately  tomb •• 295 

You  asked,  I  remember,  if  those  that  have  flown 183 

Your  creed  may  be  pure,  and  as  orthodox  found 297 


